K-.: 



|^^;;':i-i[:;..:-:.;;::^:;:r,:; 



*1v;r'' ;:ril;;;[::;'-;;':'- 



:;-j,;;'";-t'.a"v:'U''.': 

III; 

"te:i;r;f..:' 



■ J . . ,! t 



mmm seyiiii'r. 



O K, 



DieApPomiBc ntvtM 






A OKAMA 



IN THREE ACTS. 



i'RAMATISED FROM LOVER's CELEBRATED WORK. 

ENTITLED " TOM CROSBIE AXD 

niS ERTENDS."' 



BY JOHN W. WHITJB;;oF- 

• ;;■■ COPYRIQHr ^^.\> 



C'1 



-^ 






MOUNT yer:n^on, OillO : 

'KINTED BY JOIIX W. Vv'HTTE, AT THE TELE. iV.^.eU . » ,. H K 

1858. 



^ 






Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1858, by 
JOHJ>T W. WHITE, 

in the Clerk's Office of the District Conrt of the Northern 
District of Oliio. 






7 4^ 



Dramatis PersoneB. 



GEOPvGE SEYMOUK, 
GEKALD EOCHEFOET, 
T03I CEOSBIE, 
ME. FEANIvS, 
DENKY CONNEE. 
8EEVANT. 

MES. EOCHEPOET, 
EMMA AUBYN, 
JESSIE FEANKS, 
LIZZY EOSS, 
MISS BUEKE, 
BIDDY. 



iSCE:NE— DUBLi:^. 



GEOROE SEYMOUR. 



A C T I .— S C E N E I . 

Parlor. — [George Seymour discovered walking the room.] 
Enter 3l7's. Rochefoi^t. 

Seymour. — It is long since we met; a,t least, since 
we met alone. You are greatly altered. (J/y'S. H. 
scats herself, a7id buries her face in Iter hands.) {Aside.) 
— Years bring wond'rous changes : I remember when 
that wrinkled forehead was smooth as polished mar- 
ble, and that drooping eye, lit up with the fire of pride 
and beauty ; yet it is not age which has marked the 
features, but the workings of the heart — the heart 
itself cannot bo seen, but it writes its history in the 
face. Her heart was always false — mine to-day, his 
to-morrow. Yet I loved her once — loved her to be 
. despised and scorned : but I have been revenged, and 
will be, until revenge itself can go no farther. (Sey- 
mour pauses, and looks intently at Mrs. B.) Where is 
3'our son? 

3frs. Rochefort. — He left us last night, as 1 dare say 
you are aware, or I should have been spared this visit. 



6 GEORGE SEYMOUR. [ACT 1. 

Seyinour. — (^Smiling.) — You are right : 1 am aware 
that he left you last night — but ichere has he gone? 

Mrs. E. — To London. 

Seymour. — London ! What has taken him there ? 

Mrs. R. — He is gone — he is gone to seek employ- 
ment, as a means of raising himself from the beggary 
which your machinations have brought upon him. 

Seymour. — (Smilmg bitterly.) — You seem to forget, 
Madam, that the beggary of which you speak, is owing 
more to your conduct than to mine. I have been told 
3^our son was left an independent property by his 
father — where is it now? No machinations — as you 
are pleased to call them — of mine, have deprived him 
of that, and yet it seems he has it not. 

Mrs. B. — {After a 'pause.) — What is the object of 
your comiDg now? Why are you here ? 

Seymour. — You shall know. On the morning of that 
night w^hen last you saw me, your son saved a lady's 
life — he has since been pa^dng his addresses to her, I 
am told. Is such the fact ? 

Mrs. R. — I cannot tell ) it may be so. 

Seymour. — Y"ou know full well it is so; and more- 
over, you know that your heart is set upon the match 
— the lady is rich, and her wealth would be well ap- 
plied in patching up your broken fortunes. I will 
prevent that marriage, and through your means. — 
Your son shall have to thank his mother for the de- 
struction of his happiness. 

Jfrs. R. — (Faintly.) — What mean you ? When will 
this persecution cease ? 

Seymour. — {Sternly.) — When I cease to live ! 

Mrs. R. — May God forgive you, George ! But if I 
must still suffer from your uurelenting cruelty, wh}' 
should 3'our vengeance pursue my unoffending child — 
he has never given you any cause 



SCKNE r.] GEORGE SEYMOUR. 7 

Seymour — {Furcely.) — He is your son ' and tlierefore 
I am his enemy I 

3frs. B. — {Bursting into tears.) — My God! my God! 
What have I done to deserve all this? (Baising her 
hands in sxipplication to Seymour) — Have mercy, George ! 
You say you once loved me, and by the memory of 
that love, I conjure you now to spare my boy. You 
broke his father's heart, and I will soon be with him 
in the grave, for mine also you have broken ; but ex- 
tend not your vengeance to ni}' bo}' — he has deserved 
it not — why should your hate descend on him ? 

Seymour. — Listen to me, Kate Rochefort ! You 
have reminded me of the love I bore you once : — I did 
love you, deeply, madly — and what was the return? 
Contempt and scorn! I. tell you, woman, that if the 
dead were to rise from their graves this moment, and 
kneel before me, they could not effect the change of a 
hair's breadth in the purpose of my revenge. It is in 
vain ! By Him who made me ! happiness shall never 
be the lot of you or yours, so long as I have the power 
to prevent it ! — (Faces the room hurriedly.) 

Mrs. B. — (Bising.) — Kow listen to me, George Sey- 
mour. For years — for many bitter years, you have 
made my life a curse — it vais a happy life until you 
came, like a spirit of evil, to blast its joy, and destroy 
its peace forever. Even honor you would have robbed 
me of, but that I saw my infatuation in time to escape 
the danger. Still, I could not root you entirely from 
my heart — first impressions Avere there, and it is 
hard to blot them out. I forgave you all until I dis- 
covered your dark treachery to my husband. Now 
mark me! You say I changed your love to hate; the 
fiercest hate that ever burned in your heart, was noth- 
ing compared with the deadly loathing and abhorrence 
felt towards vou from that moment, and afterwards 



8 GEORGE SEYMOUR. [ACT I. 

for years. But time softened it. Had I never seen 
you again, I would have forgiven you. You came 
again, though — came as you ever did, with evil tidings; 
you brought me a tale of my son's having quit the 
army in disgrace — that was false, and you knew it, 
but no matter; for the time it helped you in your 
revenge. He returned shortly after, and for many 
months I saw 3'ou no more. But at last we met again. 
You came with exj^ressions of penitence and sorrow : 
you told 7ne you were about to leave the country, and, 
as a proof of your contrition, you offered to free me of 
my embarrassments, by refunding a portion of the 
wealth of which you had deprived me. I had faith in 
what you told me then, and, believing your professions 
were sincere, 1 confided to you the history of my 
ward, and that, in order to screen some of my follies 
and mad extravagance from my son, I had spent the 
fortune bequeathed her by her mother. No sooner 
had I told you this, than you threw off the mask, and 
swore that, unless I yielded to the proposal which 
years before you had made nie, the secret I had thus 
confided to you should be made public. But God 
gave me strength, and I defied you. You left me then, 
swearing that before the lapse of another day, my 
disgrace should be published to the world. From that 
hour 1 lived in a state of apprehension and fear, that 
almost deprived me of my reason. If Gerald was only 
absent for an hour, I watched his return with the most 
intense anxiety of fear- — ever dreading that when he 
did return, it w^ould be to curse his mother for having 
brought disgrace upon his head: no felon ever looked 
upon his judge with greater dread, than did I upon my 
own child I But months went over without the execu- 
tion of your threat ; — gradually my terrible alarm ^^'ore 
av/ay, and a strong hope sprang up that you had re- 



SCENE I.] GEORGE SEYMOUR. 9 

lented,aiKl had, in realitVj left the coniitrv; thai hope 
was crushed wlien 1 encountered you on the street on 
the night of Gerahl's accident, and, from that moment, 
the tortures of my mind liave been as great as ever. 
I have long expected this time to come — that moment 
has now arrived, and I am in yowv power. Use it. 
Do 5'our worst at once, but let the blow fall on me 
alone, for I alone deserve it. You shall never make 
me an agent in your plots against the hapj^iness ol" 
my child ; he has enough to curse me for already. — 
May Oiod forgive me ! 

Seymour. — It is well, Madam ; because, up to this 
time, I have spared j^ou, you think you may, with 
safet}", defy me now; but you are mistaken. You 
say truly, that your son has already suthcient cause to 
curse you, but he shall have more. You declare that 
you will be no agent in fustrating his happiness! So 
far, you have declared the truth — /will be i\\Q> agent — 
3"0u the i>rincipal. Think you, that Mr. Franks would 
give his daughter to the son of one who has robbed 
the orphan committed to her charge ? and so sure as 
I stand liere before you, so surely will I proclaim to 
him the fact ! 

Mrs. R. — You could not be such a villain ! — You 
cannot mean to poison my own child against me, and 
make him hate me. Some remnant of human feeling 
must still be in j'our nature. 

Seymour. — Human feeling I — What care I for the 
cant term of the world. My nature itself is changed — 
1 have no feeling now but one, and that one is hatred of 
you and yours. I would pause at nothing now, that 
could be the means of bringing down upon your head 
the miscrj', the tortures of mind and heart, which you 
have brought on me. Therefore, expect no mercy at 
my hands, for none shall vou receive. 
b 



10 GEORGE SEYMOUR. [ACT I. 

Mrs. R. — God pity me f Grod pity me, and spare me 
my reason ; for a little, a very little more, will destro-y 
it. Leave me, George Seymour, — (wildy,) — ^if you 
would not see me a maniac or a suicide ! Go ! in 
mercy go ! my mind is weakened, and madness is 
coming upon me. Oh ! may heaven forgive you for 
all this ! — (^Bursting into tears.) 

Seymour. — Tears are ever ready with woman, and 
sometimes prove effective ; but with me, you will find 
them unavailing. There is still one condition upon 
which you can insure my silence in this matter relating 
to 3'our ward. 

Mrs. li. — {Eagerly.) — ^Name it ! 

Seymour. — It is simply this, that you will consent to 
tell Miss Aubyn that, at her mother's death, she was 
bequeathed to 7n.y care, as well as j^ours — that I was 
absent in another country at the time, and that I am 
now returned to claim my guardianship. 

Mrs. R. — It is enough that I have already betrayed 
my trust — I will do so no farther. 

Seymour. — But if I tell you that your consent to 
this prox30sal, will be a service to the girl, instead of 
an injury 

Mrs. R. — I Avill not believe it ! In what way could 
it be a service ? 

Seymour. — E"o matter ! I tell you it will be, and you 
must either trust me, or abide the can sequences. 

Mrs. A*.— Then I will abide them. 

Seymour. — That is your resolution? 

Mrs. R.—lt is. 

Seymour. — Then hear me. — Before 1 leave this house> 
she shall know how faithfull}^ her guardian has ful- 
filled her dut3^ When I have taught her to despise 
you, I wall then to Mr. Franks and enlighten him as 
to the family affairs of his intended son-in-law. Your 
son himself shall be the next 



SCENE I.] GEORGE SEYMOUR. 11 

Mrs. JR. — Stay ! no more, or you will drive me mad. 
I cannot bear this — it is in vain to struggle. 

Seymour. — Then yield at once ! — consent to my pro- 
posal, and I will be silent. 

3frs. It. — How can I depend on that ? you have so 
often deceived me 

Seymour. — You must depend on it, or- 



Mrs. M. — No more ! I will consent, and if Emma 
is the sufferer, may God forgive me ! 

Seymour.— Your anxiety for her welfare is doubt- 
less very great, but you need not be alarmed ; I dare 
say she will lind my guardianship at least as beneficial 
as yours has been. All I require from you at pre- 
sent is, that in case she should question you on the 
subject, you tell her that I am her guardian, but that 
peculiar circumstances prevented you from giving her 
such information before. You understand me — you 
are never to mention the subject to her unless she 
questions you. 

3Irs. E. — And if she never questions me ? 

Seymour. — Then be silent. 

Mrs. B. — One word more — upon this condition you 
promise me that my secret shall be safe ? 

Seymour. — I have said so. 

Mrs. i^.— And you will not endeavor to prevent my 
son's marriage with Miss Franks ? 

Seymour- — I have not promised tliat! but if the 
marriage should be broken off, it must be the act of 
your son himself—will that content you? 

Mrs. R. — It must, for I have no alternative. 

Seymour. — Then remember our compact — if Miss 
Aubyn should, at any time, ask you if it be true that 
I am her guardian, you tell her, without hesitation, 
that such is the fact. Break through the condition, 
and you know the result. [Exeuent. 



"i2 UEORGE SEYMOUR. [ACT I. 



SCENE II. 

TuM Ceosbie's Room.— [Tom discovered in the act of Shaving 
— Coat and Vest hanging on a Chair.] 

Tord.—( Soliloquy.) — Money onust be had, that's poz! 
l/m rcgnhirly done up, and the only " blunt ^^ in my 
possession is the edge of this confounded razor. Now, 
a man Avithout money has no more business in society 
than — thanwliat? — than a woman under the same 
circumstances, and a woman without money is — more 

than my beard is, with this d d razor — likely to be 

cut. Therefore, money must be had — where, I don't 
know — how, I don't care — but it must come ! Can't 
take ifc from Dismal — he's a friend; a man should 
never borrow from a friend. Must turn school-boy 
again, and endeavor to fly a "kite" — that's the only 
plan I sec. Let me think now. Whose name would 
look vv'cll upon a bit of stiff for fifty ? Cloodmau's ? 
Oh, yes, indeed, don't I wish I might get it ? Brown's? 
Brown would'nt accept a bill for his father. Morris ? 
Oh, yes ! there's Morris — he'd do it in a minute ; but, 
poor follow ! he's often hard up enough himself, and I 
would'nt like to ask him. Stop, though, I don't sec 
Avhy I should'nt ask Dismal — the thing is nob like 
borrOAving money — it won't cost him a farthing, and 
ril pay it Avhen it's due. By Jove ! that '11 do -, I'll 
give Mrs. Taylor her money, cut the concern, take 
(j^uiet lodgings, go to church every Sunday, look out for 
a rich Avidow — no, hang it, I'll never marry: that 
Lizzy Eoss is enough to make a man pitch the sex to 
the devil; her conduct last night Avas shameful, scan- 
dalous, disgraceful! I'll never speak to her again as 
long as I live ; I hate her, I detest her ! (Music mtf^ 



SCENE II.] GEORGE SEYMOUR. li> 

singing heard.) Hash ! that's her voice singing. — 
(Runs to the door and calls ont.) — I'll be down in live 
minutes, Lizzy, to take a second in that duet. — (Goes 
back to dressing table.) I just said that to vex her— I 
hav'nt a notion of going down — where the devil is 
that suspender ? I would'nt go if she came up and 
asked me. Confound this waistcoat ! I put my arm 
through the wrong hole. I never saw a girl I dislike 
as much as that ! — there she goes again. — (Opens the 
door and cries out) — Ah ! can't you wait till I come 
down, Lizzy? — I'll not be a half dozen seconds. — (Goes 
to the glass and brushes his whiskers.) I never looked 
so frightful in my life. Tm not fit to be seen — I made 
myself look so purposely, to vex that girl ! I'll just 
walk into the drawing room in this kind of a wa}^ — 
(folds his arms and knits his brows into a stern frown) — 
and I won't open my lips — not as much as to say good 
morning — I'm the very fellow that can do that sort of 
thing, when I take it into my head — I'll be as stiff as 
a Lord Chancellor. If she speaks to me I'll just say 
in this kind of tone, you know, hem! a — ^^Miss Boss, 
I have the honor to wish you — a — a — hem — joy of — 
of your conquest last night — Madam l" That'll surprise 
her a bit, I suspect ; but here's some one coming up 

stairs — a message from her I'll engage. D n this 

coat, it wrinkles most confoundedly about the waist. — 
(Knocking heard.) — Ah ! there's the knock at the door 
— now for it — hem ! — Who's there ? 

Biddy. — (Outside.) — It's me, sir — Biddy, sir. 

Enter Biddy. 

Tom. — Oh! you may just say I'm engaged at pre- 
sent. — I have something else to think of besides sing- 
ing, just now. 



14 GEORGE SEYiMOUR. [ACT I. 

Biddtj. — It's not about singing, your wanting. 

Tom. — Never mind — can't attend to any woman's 
nonsense at present. 

Biddy. — It's not a woman, sir; it's a boy that's 
wanting you. 

Tom. — A boy ! why the devil didn't you say so ? — 
Who is he ? 

Biddy. — I don't know, sir; he's a poor looking cray- 
ture, but he's very civil spoken. 

Tom. — Did he kiss you ? 

Biddy. — Eh, then, isn't it a shame for you, Misther 
Crosbie, to be always gettin' on in that fashion. — 
(IViping her lips on her apron.') I never see the likes 
of you ! 

Tom. — Well, go down and tell him, whoever he is, 
that I'll see him in a few minutes. \^Exit Biddy. 

(^Tom returns to the glass, gives his whiskers another 
touch) and then retires.') 



SCENE III. 

Deawing Room. — [Lizzj Eoss discovered seated at the Piano, 
with her back to the door.] 

Enter Tom Crosbie. 
Lizzy. — ( Taking no notice of Tom, sings:) 

The flower that I loved is withered, 
Its leaves and its fragrance shed. 
The destroyer has breathed upon it — 

Mary is dead ! 
In my ear her loved voice never 
Shairbreathe in its silver tone, 
Its music is hushed forever, 
The light of my heart is gone. 



SCENE III.] GEORGE SEYMOUR. 15 

Like the spring time's changing beauties, 
. As bright, and as quickly lied, 
"Were my dreams for the hidden future — 

Mary is dead ! 
My fair-haired bride has left me 
Deserted and alone, 
Death hath of hope bereft me, 
The light of my heart is gone. 

Yet she smiles through the troubled dreamings 

That come to my v/idow'd bed, 

And I weep, for it soothes my sorrow — 

Mary is dead. 
I weep when the morning wakes me, 
With the light of the golden sun, 
For mine is a life of darkness, 
The light of my heart is gone. 

{^During the singing, Torn listens attentively, forgettincj 
his frovm and his folded arms. — At the close he stalks 
across the room like a Bashaio, and, flings himself full 
length upon the sofa, and commences playing icith his 
thumbs.) 

Lizzy. — (Carelessly.) — Oh, are yoii there? — (Tom 
looks wicked.) Yoii seem in a cheerful humour. — {Tom 
bites his lip.) Don't eat it all I beg of you; pray 
leave a little bit. — {Tom turns his face to the icall.) — 
Pleasant creature. — {Tom kicks his boot against the sofa.) 
Do that again, it's so sensible. — {Tom does it again.) 
Another little kick. — ( Tom lets his foot fall to the floor.) 
Would'nt you like to kick it a little more ? — {Tom lets 
h is other foot fall.) Perhaps you'd wish for your night- 
cap? — {To7n turns round upon the sofa.) Shall I sing 
you a lullaby? — {Seriously.) 

Tom. — {Aside.) — Can't stand it much longer. 

Lizzy, —Shall 11 

Tom. — ]^s o I — (i/i a loud voice.) Go^ sing one for your 



16 GEORGE SEYMOUR. [ACT I. 

new conquest; — he likes that sort of thinf^, perhaps — 
1 don't ! 

Lizzy. — Oh ! 3'ou liave found your voice, liave you'/ 
— (Jjaughing.') 

Tom.— -Yes, Madam, I have found my voice, and let 
me make use of it to tell you. Madam, that it will bo 
some time before you shall hear it again. 

Lizzy. — Another silent fit ? 

Tom. — You better not laugh at me, Madam. — (Bising 
from the sofa, and folds his arms as he intended.) I'm 
not a— a — hem — not to be trifled with, 1 can tell you ! 

Lizzy. — You would'nt murder me ? — ( With mock ter- 
ror, shrinJdng back from him.) -*■ 

Tom. — No, Madam, but I might murder somebody 
else — somebody else, Madam ; perhaps I may make m}^- 
sclf understood. — (Marches across the room.) 

Lizzy. — Oh ! don't come near me ; I'm afraid you'll 
bite me I 

Tom. — Good morning, Madam ! — (il/ores toward the 
door, boicing icith dignity.) I'm going, Madam ! I 
have the honor to wish you good morning ! 

Lizzy. — Good morning ! — i^With a deep courtesy, and 
with a grave countenance.) Pray, don't kill yourself or 
any body else until I see j^ou again ! 

Tojn. — Oh ! you be {Hushes out.) 

Ljizzy. — Tom ! 

To7n. — {Coming back.) — Did you speak, Madf^m? 

Ljizzy. — YouAvould'nt shake iiandswith me? — {Coax- 
ingly.) 

Tom. — No ! certainly not I 

Lizzy. — You would'nti:' 

Tom. — I'd die first. — {Pnts his haiids behind his back.) 

Lizzy. — I would'nt let you kiss me ! 

Tom. — Perhaps, if Mr. jvoelicfort was here, you 
mijxht let him ! 



80ENE III.] GEORGE SEYMOUR. 17 

Lizzy. — I would'nt let you, at all events. — {JDratcing 
nearer to Mm.') 

Tom. — Oh ! you know / never kissed you ! 

Lizzy. — You never shall again ! 

Tom.— Shan't I ? 

Lizzy. — No — never ! 

Tom. — I would if I liked I 

Lizzy. — I defy you — I'd scj*eam if you did. 

Tom.— You would ? 

Lizzy. — Yes — certainly. 

Tom. — Scream now. then !- — {Catches her round th^ 
waist, and kisses her.) — There ! 

3Iiss Burke. — (^At the door.) — That's very nice con- 
duct, upon my word. — ( Walks rnajestically into the room.) 

Lizzy. — My Aunt. \^Exit. 

Tom.— -Miss Burke ! by all that's unlucky I I'm oft" 
— good morning, ladies. — (Makes for the door.) 

Miss Burke. — Stop, sir I 

jfo??!.— -Another time, my dear Madam, I shall be 
most happy — at present, particular business 

Miss Burke. — I desire you to remain ! 

Tom. — Can't 'pon my honor ! — going to a friend's 
death-bed — last gasp- — mind wondering, and all that 
sort of thing. Can't stop a moment — good morning. 
— -(Bushes out.) 

Miss Burke.— -And you, Miss Eoss, what have you 
to say about such scandalous conduct ? — ( Turning, di-i- 
covers herself alone.) [^Exit. 



18 GEORGE SEYMOUR. [ACT. 



SCENE IT. 

pRAWINQ KooM. — [George Seymour discovered sitting, with 
his elbow resting on a Table. Two or three Chairs in the 
Koona.] 

Enter Eynma Auhyn. 

Seymour. -{Eising and bowing respectfully.') — I have to 
make many apologies, Miss Aubyn, for this unceremo- 
nious intrusion — for intrusion, I fear, you must con- 
Bidor it. If you will do me the favor to sit down and 
attend to me tor a few minutes, I will endeavor to ex- 
plain my reasons. — (^Places a chair for her near his own. 
Emma seats herself) But, before I begin, suffer me to 
assure you, you have no cause to fear the approach of 
any evil, such as, from the answer to my letter, you 
seem to apprehend. 

Emma Aubyn. — You will excuse me, if I request, 
that I may at once be informed of the object of this 
visit. 

Seymour. — Pardon me one moment ; there are two 
or three questions I would first ask you, and though 
they may appear somewhat impertinent, believe me, 
I do not mean them to be so, as I am sure you will 
acknowledge, when matters have been explained. In 
the first place, then, what is your age ? 

Emma Aubyn. — {Smiling.) — Eighteen my next birth 
day. 

Seymour. — And when will that be? 

Emma Aubyn. — Oh ! a long way off— the latter end 
of March. 

Seymour. — (Aside.) — March, and this is the last week 
in July. {Loud.) — You were born in Paris, I believe ? 



SCENE IV.] GEORGE SEYMOUR. IJ^ 

{Emma hows in the affirmative.') Your mother died 
when your were very young. {Emma weeps. After some 
moments silence.') — I meant not this, believe me; I am 
deeply grieved that I should have awakened memo- 
ries so painful. Can you forgive me ? — {Lays his 
hand with gentleness on hers.) 

Enuna Auhyn. — {In a broken voice.')- — I have nothing 
to forgive ; you could not have intended to wound my 
feelings, nor could I have thought that, after so many 
years, the mere mention of my poor mother, and of my 
early home, could have betrayed me into such weak- 
ness but it is over now. I can listen calmly to any- 
thing you have to say — pray go on. 

Seymour. — You are already aware that at your mo- 
ther's death, you were brought over here from France, 
and placed under the guardianship of Mrs. Eochefort ; 
but, I believe, you have never yet been informed that 
there was also another to whose care you were be- 
queathed. Circumstances have hitherto prevented 
that other from coming forward to perform his share 
of duty toward you. In fact, until very latel}'-, he has 
been absent in a distant land. On his return to this 
country, he sought out Mrs. Eochefort. He hoped to 
have found that the care of one guardian had been 
sufficient, and that you had suffered nothing by his 
unavoidable neglect ; but he was deceived; instead of 
that, he discovered that all your interests, present, and 
future, had been sacrificed by her whose duty it should 
have been to fulfill toward you the part of a second 
mother. 

Emma Auhyn. — It is false ! grossly false, whoever 
saj^s it. She has been a second mother to me ; if she 
had not, what would have become of me, when 1 was 
thrown on the world homeless and penniless? 

Seymour. — You have been deceived. You were not 



m GEORGE SEYMOUR. [ACT 1. 

left penniless. There was a sum placed in Mrs. Eoche- 
fort's hands for your use, the interest of which was to 
be devoted to your education, and the principal to be- 
come yours when you should reach the age of eighteen. 

Emma Auhyn. — Impossible ! If it were really as 
you say, Mrs. Eochefort would not have kept me in 
the dark so long. You must be misinformed. 

Seymour. — That is not likely, as I think you will 
allow, when I tell you Mrs. Eochefort herself is my 
informant. / am her fellow guardian, and she confessed 
to me that the mone}'' — a thousand pounds — which 
was placed in her hands, has been long since squan- 
dered. 

Emma Auhyn. — I will not believe it ; until I hear it 
from her own lips I will not believe it. What object 
could she have in concealing from me the fact that 1 
had another guardian ? or, if money had really been 
placed in her hands for my use, why not have told 
me, when she knew that it would have been my 
greatest pride to offer it for her service ? I cannot 
believe it ! I will go to her this instant. — {Attempts 
to rise — Seymour detains her.) 

Seyjuour. — Stay 1 If you would not bring instant 
ruin on her head, you will keep this interview a secret 
—-at least for the present. 

Emma Auhyn. — Why is all this mystery ? Why not 
question Mrs. Eochefort on this subject? Or why 
not, before now, come forward openly, and declare 
yourself my guardian ? I cannot understand it! 

Seymour.— -^oVieYe me, I had strong reasons for act- 
ing as I have done. There are circumstances which 
render it absolutely necessary that Mrs.Eochefort's son 
should remain for a time in ignorance of my return to 
this country, and therefore I have taken advantage 
of his absence to ask this interview. Besides^ I was 



SCENE IV.] GEORGE SEYMOUR. 21 

not aware, until within a day or two, how your guard- 
ian had betrayed her trust. You know not all I have 
discovered — you could never dream of the wrongs 
that have been done you. 

Emma Auhnn. — One question. — If all you have told 
me be indeed true, is it with Gerald's knowledge 't 

Seymour. — I believe he knows no more than your- 
self, that any fortune had been left you ; there are 
many secrets besides this, which his mother has not 
thought necessary to confide to him. I am told, that 
this young man is paying his addresses to a wealthy 
heiress — do you know her ? 

Emma Aubi/n.-—lf you allude to Miss Franks, I have 
seen her, but I do not know her intimately, nor have 
I heard anything of the kind which you speak of; but 
if it would be for Gerald's advantage, I hope- — I hope 
it is true. — {^Turns aside to hide her tears.') 

Seymour. — (Coolly.) — It is not hkely to be of much 
advantage, inasmuch as no marriage will ever take 
place between them. 

Emma Aifbyn.-(Quickly.)-'Whixtl how know you that? 

Seymour.- — Because, I have it in my power to pre- 
vent it, and I will prevent it. 

Emma Aubyn. — {Aside.) — Oh ! if I could be sure of 
that, how happy it would make me. 

Seymour. — And now, Miss Aubyn, I have no objec- 
tion to you mentioning to Mrs. Eochefort this inter- 
view, provided you make known the nature of it no 
farther than inquiring of her, whether it was true that 
you had a second guardian ; but under no circumstan- 
ces, must she suppose j^ou are acquainted with the fl^ct 
of any money having been bequeathed you. 

Emma Aubyn. — If Sirs. Eochefort acknowledges that 
you have stated the truth, then I promise to be guided 
in future by your advice. [Exeuent. 



22 GEORGE SEYMOUR. [ACT I. 



SCENE V. 

Mr. Franks' Eoom. — [Mr. Franks discovered walking the 
room hurriedly.] 

Mr. Franks— -{Soliloquy.)— -CoTiioundi that fellow, 
Gerald Roehefort ! At dinner I invited him to my room, 
and here 1 have been an hour awaiting his appearance. 
Confound him, I say. If he did save my daughter's 
life, 1 can't stand every thing, and 1 won't. Why 
can't he come forward boldly and say — " Mr. Franks, 
I love your daughter — will ,you give her to me ?" — 
That would be behaving like a man ; but, instead, 
here he comes sneaking day after day, and then sneak- 
ing off again. I have no patience with such a fellow I 
Why, when I was a young man — but times have 
laltered since then ! — when I was a young man like 
him, damme! I'd have popped the question in five 
minutes; and if the answer was "No "- — phsha ! what 
am I thinking of! He knows as well as I do, that it 
would be no such thing. If he does n't propose for 
her before ten days arc over his head, hang me if I 
don't hunt him like a redshank, about his business. 
There's an end on it ! They are together now— -such 
a turning up of eyes, and squeezing out of sighs, and 

every d d nonsense of the kind ! Whenever two 

young people are in a room together, and no sounds 
audible beyond the door, there's sure to be mischief 
in the wind ! For two pins I'd steal a march, and find 
out what they're at ; if it's not mischief, there's no 
harm done; if it is, I'll open their eyes a bit. But 
" listeners never hear good of themselves," they say — 
no matter ! Hang me it I don't do it ! I know there's 
villany going on — and I'll see if I can't make it out. 
ni astonish them ! [Exit 



S€ENE VI.] GEORGE SEYMOUR. 



SCENE Y I . 

Drawing Room. — [Jessie Franks and Gerald Rochefort discov- 
ered seated on a Sofa — the hand of the maiden reposing 
quietly in that of her lover. Mr. Franks discovered behind 
one of the wings watching them.] 

Gerald. — Jessie — Jessie, I am very unhappy. 

Mr. Franks. — Humph! — humph; what does he 
mean by that ? 

Jessie. — {Softly.) — Why should you be unhappy 7 

3fr. Franks. — Because he's an ass ! — that's why ! 

Gerald. — Ever since the first hour I saw you, I have 
been dreaming 

Mr. Franks. — Ahiiost time for you to wake up then. 

Gerald. — And now, I feel that when that dream is 
ended, life will have no farther happiness for me. 

Jessie. — But why should you have such feai*s? — 
dreams have often been realized, you know. 

Gerald. — Mine can scarcely- be — it was too bright. 

Mr. Fraiiks. — Too fiddlestick ! — confounded stuff ! — 
CanU the fellow put his arm around her neck, like a 
man, and give her a smack at once, instead of all this 
nonsense ? 

Gerald. — Too bright — far too bright. 

Mr. Franks. — If he says that again, hang me if I 
don't rush in and kick him ! 

Jessie. — Are you dreaming now ? or do you want to 
put me to sleep with that doleful voice and look ? 

Gerald. — Your father 

Mr. Franks. — Ha! now we are going to have it ! I 
thought there was mischief in the wind ! 

Gerald. — Your father told me after dinner to-day, 
that he wished to speak to me in private. 

Jessie. — (Anxiously.) — Well ? 



24 GEORGE SEYMOUR. [ACT I. 

Gerald. — I was afraid to remain, for I anticipated 
the nature of his speecli — it would have been to tell 
me to come here no more. 

Jessie. — You must be dreaming ! — how could you 
think of such a thing ? 

Gerald. — I feel it ; — and ho is right ; he cannot but 
have seen my love for you; and {bitterly,^ he knows I 
am a beggar ! 

Mr. Franks. — I am longing to be at him ! 
Jessie. — Gerald — (ivithdrawing her hand,^ — you do 
my father an injustice. If such a motive could have 
governed him an instant — which is impossible, as you 
should by this time know, he would never have suf- 
fered our intercourse to continue. Ko earthly consid- 
eration could ever induce him to risk the happiness 
of his child. You do not know my father! 

Mr. Franks. — My child ! my own true-hearted child ! 
( Wiping his eyes.) — God bless her ! 

Gerald. — Forgive me, Jessie. — ( Taking her hand and 
pressing it between both his oivn.) — Forgive me, dearest ; 
I meant not to offend you, but the fear that I should 
be separated from you now almost deprives mo of 
reason. If you could only know the depth of my 
love, you would not blame me. 

Mr. Franks. — Ah ! that's something like ! — the bu- 
siness will soon be settled now ! 

Jessie. — Is it very deep ? I think it must be, it has 
taken so long to come to the surface. 

Mr. Franks. — Good ! let him put that in his pipe and 
smoke it ! 

Gerald. — (^Passing his arm round her vjaist, and draws 
her closer to his side.) — You love me, Jessie ? 

Jessie. — Do I ? 

Gerald. — Such is my hope — is it a deceitful one? 

Jessie. — !Not quite so much so as hopes generally are. 



tjOENE VI.] GEORGE SEYMOUR. 25 

Gerald. — You know my poverty. 

Mi\ Franks. — Damn his poverty ! 

Jessie. — Never allude to that again, if you would 
not wish seriously to wound ni}^ feelings. {Smiluig.) 
You know riches are so unromantic! 

Mr. Franks. — Damn romance I AYe'll have ^' love 
in a cottage" now — flowers and bowers, eyes and 
sighs, hearts and darts, and all that sort of thing — pah ! 

Gerald. — They maybe unromantic, Jessie, but they 
are very necessary, nevertheless, and notwithstanding 
all your father's kindness to me, I cannot hope that 
ho would give his consent to our union. 

Afr. Franks. — For .a sixpence, I'd walk in and order 
the fellow to march — how dare the fellow have such 
an opinion of me ? 

Jessie. — Gerald, dear Gerald, — shall I confess it ? I 
have long wished for this hoar to conic. I could not 
be bund to your love, for my own heart taught mc to 
read yours ; I knew your feelings, for I knew my own ; 
but I longed to hear you speak them, for then, dear 
Gerald, I could tell you how they were returned. 

Gerald. — {Kissing her.) — My ow7i Jessie ! 

Mr. Franks. — All right ! I may soon walk in ! 

Jessie. — {Gerald kisses her again.) — There! that will 
do — let me finish what I have to say, before you 
smother me, entirely. Gerald, I know my dear 
father's nature, and you have but to tell him of — of 
our attachment, to insure his consent, and his blessing. 

Mr. Franks. — The little villian ! — {i?i an ecstacy of 
delight,) — the cunning little villain ! how did she guess 
it ! — {Wijoing his eyes.) 

Gerald. — {Embracing her.) — Now am I happy indeed; 
but, dearest, may you not be mistaken ? — may not 
you reckon too fondly on your father's yielding hie 
consent ? 
b 



rL 



26 GEORGE SEYMOUR. [ACT I. 

Mr. Franks. — I'll make him smart for this ! 

Jessie. — No, Gerald, I am not mistaken j my father 
loves you as well — almost as well as — as well as I do. 

Gerald. — My own darling girl ! — {Drawing her to his 
hearty and pressing his lips to hers.) 

Mr. Franks. — Come ! this won't do! Hang me if I 
stand any more of this ! he'll eat her before he stops ! 
( Walks into the roo7n.) 

Mr. Franks. — Yes, sir-^Mr. Franks ! Yea, Madam 
— your father ! You ought to be proud of yourselves ! 
This is a remarkably nice sort of a duet I have inter- 
rupted — pray go on with it — oh, pray do I 

Gerald. — {Stammering.) — Indeed, sir. 

Mr. Franks. — Well, sir I what have you got to say ? 
Are you ashamed of yourself ? Do you feel afraid to 
look me in the face? Do you tremble when you hear 
my voice? — {Gerald and Jessie smile.) — What are you 
grinning at, Madam ? How dare jou smile? I won- 
der you don't sink into the earth with shame! Have 
you no idea of decency? 

Jessie. — Come, papa, don't be cross. — {Coaxinglyfy 
ivhile she draws close to him and lays one hand on his 
shoulder.) — You know you look so terrible when you 
are vexed ! — {Smiles.) 

Mr. Franks. — {Stepping hack.) — Don't touch me ! — 
Don't you come within twenty miles of me ! How 
dare you love any one without asking your father's 
leave? How dare you do it, I say? 

Jessie. — Please, sir — {droppig a courtesy,) — I couldn't 
help it ! 

Mr. Franks. — {Turning to Gerald.) — You couldn't 
help it either, sir, I suppose? 
Gerald. — {Timidly.) — No, sir. 



SCENE VI.] GEORGE SEYMOUR. 27 

Mr. Franks. — And do you dare to tell me that you 
love my daughter ? 

Gerald. — (Boldly.) — I do, sir ! 

Mr. Franks. — And you would wed her without my 
consent ? 

Gerald. — I would not, sir : there you wrong me. I 
would never have urged her to disobedience of your 
wishes, and, therefore, deeply as I loved her, I have 
never spoke of it until now. 

Mr. Franks. — Say no more! {Turning to Jessie.) — 
And 3^ou, Madam, would you have become his wife 
without my sanction ? 

Jessie. — No, father, no ! — (Throwing both arms round 
his neck.) — You know I would not. 
3Ir. Franks. — And you love him ? 
Jessie. — (Nestliyig her head closer to her father's bosom.) 
— I do. 

Mr. Franks. — Here — (taking Gerald's hand,) — here 
— take her — take my darling, my own beloved child. 
Cherish her, sir, — cherish her in your heart's core ! for 
Heaven has given her to you for a blessing ! If ever 
you neglect her — if ever one cold look should fall upon 

my child — I will curse 

Jessie. — Father ! dear father ! — (Beturning to him, 
and pressing her lips upon his forehead.) — You must not 
have such thoughts — we will be so happy now! 

Mr. Franks. — (Slowly and tenderly laying his hands, 
one after the other, upon her shoulders, and thus holding 
her at arm's length before him, he gazes at her with affec- 
tion — he clasps her to his bosom in a passionate embrace — 
holds her there an instant, and, then, suddenly releases 
her, places her hand in Gerald's, and raises his hands 
reverently over their heads.) — May God's blessing, and 
mine, attend you both ! 

[END OF FIRST ACT.] 



GEOHGE SEYMOUR. [ACT II, 



ACT I i .~S C E N E I . 

A EoOM. — [Several Chairs — a Table, upon which is a small Iron 
Box — several Bundles of Papers — an Ink Stand, and a pair 
of Pistols.] 

[George Seymour, disguised as an Old Man — long locks of grey 
hair — huge unshorn beard, descending far down his breast — 
a long shapeless morning gown conceals his figure, which is 
considerably bent, seemingly with age — arms folded across 
his breast — discovered standing at the table.] 

Enter Gerald Rochefori. — [His features partially concealed by a 
large Cloak.] 

Seymour. — I have waited your coming. — (^Saluting 
him loith a cold and distant bow.) 

Gerald. — (^Returning the salutation coldly, and speak- 
ing haughtily.) — Ten o'clocJc was the time appointed — 
that hour has scarce passed — I think I have been 
punctual. 

Seymour. — Yes, ten minutes make but little differ- 
ence ; and yet half, nay a tenth part of that time may 
suffice a man to do a deed which will hang hke a bitter 
curse upon his future life — ;witliin tliat little space the 
wife may become a widow — the chikl an orphan — 
kingdoms change their rulers — riches their possessors 
— ^ay I or woman become false, and a man a murderer! 
lo it not so ? 

Gerald. — I woukl speak with you upon a different 
Bubject : I — 1 know not what you mean. 



SCENE I.] GEORGE SEYMOUR. -'^^ 

Seymour. — It matters not ; what may bo your plea- 
sure ? 

Gerald.— Yow already know my errand. 

Seymour. — Ay, I had forgotten ; you require money. 

Gerald. — I do. 

Seymour. — How much ? 

Gerald. — A thousand pounds. 

Seymour. — Humph ! it is a large sum 3 who told you 
to apply to me ? 

Gerald. — One who is himself your debtor; he told 
mo I should find you willing to advance the sum. 

Seymour. — His name? 

Gerald. — Captain Robert Harley. 

Seymour. — Oh ! and so because I have been fool 
enough to lend my money to him, he sends others to 
rob me of my gold. 

Gerald. — Sir — {haughtily') — you forget your position. 
Think 3^ou jonr hoarded wealth gives you a right to 
insult those who are driven to seek 3'our assistance? 
I came not here to bandy useless words ; can I hayo 
the money? 

Seymour. — (Smiling.) — You are hasty, young gen- 
tleman ; you have not yet spoken of security — how 
am I to be repaid ? 

Gerald. — (After a few moments hesitation.) — For the 
money, it ma}^ be long before I can return it, bat the 
interest shall be punctually paid ; and as to security, 
I have little more than personal to offer. 

Seymour. — Oh ! and pray may I ask you if you are 
really serious in seeking so large a loan, upon such 
terms as these ? 

Gerald. — If I were not, sir, the application would 
scarcely have been made. As I conclude it has been 
made in vain, I shall trespass no further upon your 
time, and so 



30 GEORGE SEYMOUR. [aCT II. 

Seymour. — Stay, stay, you are over hasty, Mr, Koche- 
fort, and 

Gerald. — (Starting.) — Kochefort ! how knew you my 
name ? when I wrote to you about this money, I mere- 
ly signed the note with an initial, and yet 1 now re- 
member the answer the boy brought me yesterday, 
bore my name upon the cover; how is this, sir? 

Seymour. — {Smiling.) — No matter, few are strangers 
to me. But the money ! You have not the means of 
repaying the tenth part of the sum, and yet, upon one 
condition, you shall have it. 

Gerald. — (Anxiously.) — What is the condition ? — 
(Seats himself.) 

Seymour. — You want this money for a purpose to 

which I am no stranger. Your mother is in debt 

( Gerald springs from his seat in astonishment.) You 

see, I am acquainted with more of your secrets than 
you gave me credit for. — (Gerald sinks into his seat.) — 
Do not interrupt me — your mother is in debt ; — ner 
reckless, dishonorable extravagance has caused it, and 
if, within a few days, one at least of her creditors be 
not satisfied, she will be disgraced forever ; is not this 
the truth ? (After a few moments silence.) — You do not 
answer, — you want this money to save your mother 
from disgrace — stay, you need not speak — I know that 
such is the fact ; I know more, that, when you were 
in distress, she refused you the assistance which might 

have saved you from but no matter j remain calm 

another moment ; you want the money, and, as I have 
said before, upon one condition you shall have it. 

Gerald. — Pray come at once to an explanation upon 
the subject I 

Seymour. — You are going to be married ! 

Gerald. — ^Ha! it is utterly impossible you should 
know that ! But what means, sir, hav© you 



SCENE I.] GEORGE SEYMOUR. 81 

Seymour. — Nay, nay, you need not be so much 
alarmed ; greater secrets than this have sometimes 
come within my knowledge. Is the idea of marriage 
so very startling to you ? 

Gerald. — {Rising.) — The means, sir, by which mat- 
ters of such importance to my family and myself, have 
come to your knowledge, I am utterly at a loss to con- 
jecture. What interest my private affairs cau possess 
for you, I cannot possibly imagine; but, as your ob- 
ject appears to be to question me upon subjects, which 
can in no way, concern you, instead of confining your- 
self to the business upon which I came, 1 must say, 
that you have presumed somewhat too far, and I shall, 
therefore, leave you at leisure to pursue your interest- 
ing researches into the history of the next person, 
whose folly, or misfortune, may drive him to seek 
your assistance. — (^Turns and walks towards the door ^) 

Seymour. — (Steps forward and lays his hand 07i Ge- 
rald's arrn.) — Young man, you should ere this have 
learned to curb the impetuosity of your temper. You 
came here to-night to seek a sum of money to save 
your mother from disgrace — hear me, I say, or if you 
will persist, then go, and let her die and rot within a 
prison! — {Resumes his seat.-— Gerald paces the roo7n in 
agitation. After a pause, Seymour resumes.) — It seeniH 
strange to you, Mr. Eochefort, that I should be aware 
of circumstances relative you, and your affairs, which 
you had deemed unknown to any but those persons 
immediately concerned. I am now, however, about 
to prove to you, that my knowledge of your affairs is 
not confined to the past, nor even to the present, but 
extends also to the future. You doubt it? Be it so, 
you shall have the proof — ^the marriage which you 
contemplate shall never take place ! 

Gerald. — By Heaven, old man ! you are presuming 



32 GEORGE SEYMOUR^ [ACT II. 

too much upon my patience. AVhatever your motives 
may be, in prying into the private transactions of my 
hfe, 1 have before said, X cannot conjecture; but that 
you should endeavor to impose upon my belief, by pre- 
tending an insight into the future, exceeds anything 
you have already said, or done. 1 tell you, usurer, or 
whatever you are, that no earthly power shall prevent 
the marriage ot which you speak, and 1 warn you to 
mention the subject no more. 

Sey7nou7\—-Oh, as you please; then our conference 
is ended. You will, no doubt, find some other person 
fool enough to lend you a thousand pounds with the 
prospect of never being paid, and your mother will 
thus be saved from the threatened danger. I say, sir, 
our conference is ended. (.Passing from the room, is 
detained by Gerald.) It is useless to prolong our in- 
terview, unless you keep your temper within bounds; 
he who seeks to borrow, should assume a milder tone. 

Gerald. — You have said, that upon one condition I 
should have the sum I seek — I again ask vv'hat that 
condition is ? 

Seymour.— -(After a imuse, and looking intently upon 
Gerald's face.) — The condition is simply this — that 
from this day forward, you resign every claim to the 

hand of I need not speak the name ; if you are 

content 

Gerald. — Content! — Content, to yield all I love on 
earth — to give up every hope of happiness — to bring 
endless misery upon myself, and to break the heart 
that has confided in me. .By Heaven ! old man, such 
jests as this, are not to be calmly borne. 

Seymour. — I jest not ; I have told you the condition 
— it is for you to consider, whether or not, you will 
agree to it. 

Geraki-"^Q\QY \ never ! not for the wealth of Eu- 



SCENE I.] GEORGE SEYMOUR. •>;> 

rope — not if I was forced, like a eomuion slave, to 
work for my daily bread, and that millions were offer- 
ed me as the reward. I tell yon, old man, if yon are 
eerions in this demand, there is some hidden villany 
that I cannot solve ) bnt it shall be discovered, and, 
mark me, one like j^ou could have no interest in break- 
ing off this marriage — there must be some damned 
plot in the transaction ; but, old and feeble as you are, 
if, by 3^our means, I am robbed of my happiness, no 
power on earth 

Seymour. — Make no rash vows, young man ; I tell 
you that upon no other condition shall 3^ou have the 
mone}', and I tell you more, that whether you yield 
to it or not, the marriage, on which you have set your 
heart, shall never take place ! If you agree, the money 
shall be yours ; if not, within a fortnight your mother 
will be in a prison — a felon — and circumstances will 
become known to the world which v,'ill disgrace both 
you and her forever. ]S[ow, sir, make up your mind. 

Gerald. — Oh, God I — {Fressing his hands npon his 
forehead.) — See the misery which has been brought 
upon me in a few short hours — my hopes dashed to 
ruin, my happiness destroyed, my plighted faith broken, 
and all, ail, through the cursed infatuation of my own 

no matter, she is still my mother. Old man, 

or devil, whatever you are, if I can find no other means 
of procuring the sum I want, within a week, I will 
agree to your condition^ though it rob me of my hap- 
piness forever. 

Seymour. — I am content, — this night week then, at 
the same hour, I shall await you. [^Exeuent, 



34 GEORGE SEYMOUR. [ACT II. 



SCENE II. 

HALL. 

Enter Denny Conner. — [Denny v/alks to tho Lack of the Stage 
and leans against one of the wings.] 

Eater Gerald Rochejort. — [Gerald passes across the Stage.] 

Denny. — (Coining forward.^ — Your sarvint, Masther 
Garald — it's a mighty nate little cabin we're in — a 
very pleasant place entirely, only the rats isn't over 
partic'lar in the regard o' food — a bite out of a body's 
nose, now 

Gerald. — {Aside.^ — Ah! I am not alone. (Tb Den- 
ny.') — You here, and know me ? 

Denny. — Why, thin, be my faix, you may say that; 
His here I am, sure enough, an' here I won't be longer 
than I can help it, you may depind, for I'd just as soon 
keep my nose on my face while I have it, an' its 
mighty likely if I'd stop a while longer, the rats 'ud 
lave me but a small share of it. 

Cierald. — How long have 3^ou been here ? 

Denny. — About three minutes, sir, for yoa see, sir, I 
was takin' a doze bey ant in the room there. 

Gerald. — I mean, how long have you been in the 
house? 

Denny. — May be an hour or two, more or less ; I 
was out walkin' this evening 

Gerald. — Confound your stupidity ! How long have 
you been living here ? 

Denny. — Musha then, jMasther Garald, I'm not livui' 
here at all ; it's dyin' I am, sir, dyin' be inches, bekase 
you see the rats 

Gerald.— \) n the rats! 



SCENE II.] GEORGE SEYMOUR. 35 

Denny. — Oh ! amin^ sir, with all the veins of my 
heart. That's the very thing I say meself, every inin- 
nit in the day — bad loock may attind th.e same var- 
mint I sorra bit of a nose 

Gerald. — I wish they'd take your tongue, too, as 
well as your nose, j^ou stupid rascal — will you answer 
me — do you sleep here ? 

Denny. — Sleep '/ — sleep is it ? JSTow I only ax your- 
self, Masther Garald, could you sleep with fifty couple 
of rats dancing counthry dances over you on the bed — 
I only ax you that? 

Gerald. — (^Aslde.') — It's perfectly useless to expect 
an answer from this stupid scoundrel, and yet he seems 
to know something of me, and might, perhaps, being 
a servant of this old money lender, solve this riddle, if 
I could induce him to tell me what he does know. — 
(Aloud.') — See^ my good fellow, whatever you name is 

Denny. — Denny, sir, Denny Conner, that's the name 
that's on me. 

Gerald. — Well, then, Denny Conner, as you call 
yourself, why do you remain here, if you dislike the 
place so much ? 

Denny. — For the best raison in life then, sir, bekase 
I have no where else to go, an' it's onloocky to throw 
out dirty wather until a body can get clane. 

Gerald. — Are you willing to leave this place, if you 
could find a more comfortable one ? 

Denny. — Ou, wow ! Is a duck willin' to swim, I 
wrondher — I dunna w^ould a dog ate mate ! Be my 
60wl, when the rats ate a few more suppers off o' me 
its a light load my bones 'ud have to carry any how. 
Am I willin' ? faix that's not so bad I 

Gerald. — Do you know^ any one to give you a char- 
acter ? 



36 GEORGE SEYMOUR. [ACT II. 

Denny. — A carrackther is it ? may be 1 haven't oiig 
iu my pocket this present iniimit — mockins I haven't 
— only wait a bit — whisht now. — (Proceeds to overhaul 
his pocket — laying each article on the floor — solilorjuising.) 
That's a dudheen ; its gettin' bittherer every day, an' 
no wondher for it, many a bitther thought wint through 
it wid the smoke. There's one, two, three, four — four 
buttons ; thini's off my livery ! There's the duplicate 
of Masther Tom's old wais'coat — fourpinee, the divle a 
farthin' more they'd give. That's a bad sixpenny ; it's 
like a raal frind, it'll stick to jou through thick and 
thin, an' no fear of its ever being changed. A bit of 
tobakky ; begorra, I'm richer nor I thought — tobakky 
is an Ingian weed that grows up in the mornin' — lie 
there beside the pipe for a minnit, I'll be talkin' to you 
bymby. Arrah,tlie curse of Crummel on you, for one 
paper, where the mischief are you at all,- at all ? — 
You'll be the last thing I'll come to, I'll go bail; more 
Iniste the worst speed, always — whisht, here it is at 
Jast — there's the least taste of grase on the outside of 
it, but look at it, Masther Eochefort — may be that 
i -n't somethin' like a carrackther. — {Handing it to him.) 
Gerald. — (Taking it tenderly between his fingers, and 
(■pens it carefully. — Heads.) — 

''.Be it known to all v.hom it may concern, that the 
bearer — if the same bo Dennis Conner — is the great- 
t'rft rascal from this to himself; and that I'll back him 
— giving the long odds — to do more mischief, tell more 
lies, and drink more \s'hiskey in a day, than any other 
man, woman or child, at present extant. If any gen- 
tleman should feel inclined to take up my bet, just let 
him inquire at Mrs. Taylor's boarding house, in Den- 
'/AUq street, for one " Tom Crosbie." 

( Cf^rald lrnii//i.<: Inuirfil if. ) 



SCENE II.] GEORGE SEYMOUR. 37 

Denny. — The divlo, Mustlier Giirald, an' 'ud you bo 
laakin' merry Avid a poor boy's feelins' l* An' isn't ye 
be afther jokin', Misther Eocliefort, hinn}^ ? 

Gerald. — No, Denny, I read it just as your friend 
Mr. Crosbie wrote. ISTot a word did 1 add or leave out. 
It is a pleasant character he gives you. 

Denny. — {Sis face assuming the most ludicrous ex2)res- 
sion, half anger, half disappointment. ~) — The divle doubt 
you tor that same thrick, Masther Tom Crosbie ] sure 
if I wasn't a fool, I might aisj^ know that's the way 
you'd sarve me — if I was your mother 'twould be all 
the same — you'll have your bit of fun, no matthcr who 
pays the piper ; but only wait ! if I don't be even wid 
you for the same turn, it's a quare thing ! 

Gerald. — Well, Dennis, I'll see about this to-mor- 
row ; I know what sort of a gentleman Mr. Tom 
Crosbie is -, the devil is not always as black as he's 
painted, and perhaps I can do something for you. I 
suppose your master up stairs, has been listening to 
every word. 

Denny. — {Aside.) — Lis'nin' ! indeed ! He'd want 
long ears to hear us from where he is by this time, I'm 
thinkin'! {Gerald walks to the door.) Good night, 
Masther Garald — good nighty sir — and when you come 
again, may be 

Gerald. — {Sharply.) — What do you know about my 
coming again ? — have you been listening, too ? 

Denny. — Walls have cars, {slyly,) and so have I, 
Masther Garald — good night, sir. \_Exit. 

Gerald. — That boy knows more than he pretends, 
but I'll discover it all before many hours. [Exit. 



o8 GEORGE SEYMOUR. [ACT II. 

SCENEIII. 
Dkawino Koom. — [Emma Aubyn discovered rending.] 

Enter George Seymour. 

Emma Auhyn. — You have come now to fulfil your 
promise ? 

t^eymour. — AYhat promise ? 

Mmna Auhyn. — That which you made when I last 
saw you — that, upon your return you would openly 
declare yourself my guardian, and end all this strange 
mystery ? You have come to do this ? 

Seymour. — I have; the promise shall be kept; I will 
see Mrs. Bochefort at once — where is she ? 

Emyna Auhyn. — In her own chamber. Shall I tell 
her you are here ? 

Seymoin\ — Presently; but first, I have a question 
or two to ask. Her son has never been told anything 
that has passed between us ? has never been informed 
that you had a second guardian ? 

Emma Auhyn. — Never by me; and, I am sure, the 
subject has never since been alluded to by his mother. 

Seymour. — So much the better. He must not hear 
that you have ever seen me before. 

Emma Auhyn. — Could not he be told that I had, all 
through, been aware of the fact of having a second 
guardian ? 

Seymour. — To what end ? How would this amend 
matters ? 

Emma Auhyn. — It would, at least, make his mother's 
conduct appear less unaccountable. 

Seymour. —1A\^ mother, I tell you, has chosen her 
own line of action, and must abide by it. 



SCENE III.] GEORGE SEYIMOUR. 39 

Emma Auhy?i. — But what objection can you have, 
that it should not be as I say ^ Wby give cause for 
trouble and unhappiness, if it can be avoided '/ 

Seymour. — It cannot be avoided! It must conie^ 
and the sooner the better. 

Emma. Aubyn. — AVhat mean you? 

Seymour. — This ! Mrs. Eochefort has robbed you — 
she must be punished ! 

Emma Aubyn. — Punished? I do not understand 
you. 

Seymour. — 1 say she has robbed you. — Should not 
crime be punished ? 

Emma Aubyn. — Still I do not understand you. 

Seymour. — Listen. This is the first week in March ; 
in three weeks more you will be eighteen. At that 
age, you were to have received a thousand pounds; it 
was placed in Mrs. Kochefort's hands for that purpose 
— she has spent it — it will not be forthcoming. It is 
my duty to see that justice is done towards you — she 
shall go to prison. 

Emma Aubyn. — Prison! You cannot mean, that 
she, wdio has filled the place of a mother to me for so 
many years, should be sent to prison for having done 
that which I would freely have consented to, had she 
but confided in me. Why should you try to alarm me 
in this way ? 

Seymour. — I have no wish to alarm you. I have 
only told you what must occur. — I merely do my duty. 

Emma Aubyn. — Your duty ! Is it your duty to 
bring ruin on the head of one, but for whom I might 
have been thrown without a friend or home upon the 
world? What do you take me for? Do you think, 
even if she had wronged me to a thousand times the 
amount, that I would suffer her to be injured — to be 
accused, much less, punished for it ? 



40 GEORGE SKYMOUK, [aCT IT. 

Seymour. — You cannot prevent it : you "svill have 
nothing to do with it. It must be ! 

Emma Aiihyn. — I tell you it must ncA be I. What ! 
let my benefactress, my second mother, be brought to 
shame and disgrace on my account? Never! Am 
1 lost to all gratitude, think you, that 1 should yield 
such a return for years of care and kindness? 

Seymour. — Once more, I tell you, you will have no- 
thing to do with it. You have been shamefully de- 
frauded, and it becomes m^^ dutj', as a guardian, to 
take care that you shall at least have justice ! 

Emma Auhyn. — Justice ! Do you speak to me of 
justice such as this? In what way could it benefit 
me, should your threats be put into execution? — 
What service 

Seymour. — Y^ou shall hear. Mrs. Eochefort's son 
has the remnant of a small property left him by his 
father — his mother has already dissipated the greater 
portion of it, but, rather than see her in a prison, he 
will sacrifice what remains — and then the sum which 
you are entitled to may be recovered. 

Emma Auhyn. — Merciful Heaven ! this is horrible 1 
What have you ever seen in my conduct, sir, that you 
should dare to propose to me such a plan as this ? — 
Oh ! I cannot believe that you are serious — it is cruel 
to tamper with me in this manner ! 

Seymour. — (^Aside.) — Before I can bring her to my 
scheme, I must touch a chord that will vibrate more 
powerfully to her heart, than any feeling I have as 
yet awakened. (To Emma.) — Emma, you do not 
know how this woman has wronged you. 

Emma Auhyn. — I do — have you not informed me? 

Seymour. — I have not; nor would I now, but to 
prove to you that she dosorves neither pity nor mercy 
at voiir linnds. 



BCENE in.] GEORGE SEYMOUR. 41 

Emma Auhyn. — She deserves both, and she shall 
find them. Had she not felt pity for me when I was 
brought to her desolate and friendless, what would 
have been my fate 't 

Seymour. — If you knew all, perhaps you might 
change jowy feelings. 

Emma Auhyn. — 1 will never change them. 

Seymour. — What if I should tell you that she has 
interfered with your happiness, in a way you never 
dreamed of ? 

Emma Auhyn. — My happiness ! What happiness 
have I ever known ? 

Seymour. — But for her you might have known it. 

Emma Auhyn. — I do not understand. What mean 
you? 

Seymour. — (Looking intently on her face.^ — You loved 
her son ! 

Emma Auhyn. — Sir ! 

Seymour. — You loved her son ! {Emma covers her 
face with her hands.) You loved him, Emma, and even 
now, when his heart is given to another — when he is 
lost to you forever — you love him still. I will tell 
3'ou now what you have never known before — your 
love was returned. 

Emma Auhyn. — (Quickly raising her head.) — Who 
told you this ? 

Seymour. — Ke confided his secret to his mother. — 
Now, do you comprehend how she has wronged you? 

Emma Aiihyn. — No, no, I can comprehend nothing. 
I feel as though it were all a dream ! Tell me — oh, 
tell me at once I 

Seymour. — Gerald had been but a short time at home, 
after his return from abroad, when he began to feel 
toward you something more than brotherly affection 

— this feeling grew rapid I v into passionate love 

f 



42 GEORGE SEYMOUR. [ACT II. 

Emma Auhyn. — Stay ! If this indeed be true — it it 
be possible — why did I never know it — or by what 
nieans has it been made known to yon? 

Seymour. — You shall hear presently; but let me 
finish. He was poor — he saw no prospect of ever 
possessing sufficient wealth to marry ; and honor pre- 
vented him from endeavoring to win your affections, 
when unhappiuess alone would be the result. He 
determined to leave his home, lest the strength of his 
passion should overcome his resolution : with this 
intent he sought his mother, told her his determina- 
tion, and con tided to her the cause 

Em7na Auhyn. — He did this ? His mother, then, 
knew it ? 

Seymour. — She did. ' His determination to leave did 
nit suit her — it would have lessened her means, already 
small. Neither did she like the idea of his marrying 
you, for her last hope w^as, and is, that he should 
obtain a wealthy bride, by means of whose riches, 
she hoped to be restored to the station she bad lost. 
This hope was a thousand times dearer to her than 
either your happiness or that of her son. To accom- 
plish this, her resolution was instantly taken. It was 
this — to make Gerald believe that you already loved 
another 

Emma Auhyn. — My God ! can this be true ? 

Seymour. — It can, and is. No considerations have 
the slightest weight with her, w^here her personal in- 
terest is concerned. 

Emr/ia Auhyn. — But Gerald could not have believed 
this? 

Seymour. — He did believe it. His mother told 
her story too artfully, to let him feel a doubt on the 
subject. 

Emm,a Auhyn. — What else did she tell him ? 



SCENE III.] GEORGE SEYMOUR. 43 

Seymour. — This — that shortly before his return you 
had been betrothed to a 3'oung Collegian, who had 
been suddenly obliged to depart with bis father, on a 
three years' tour to the Continent. Gerald's distress 
on hearing this was great; he thought it would be 
worse than dishonorable to continue his attentions, 
and from that moment he determined to conquer his 
passion, by every means m his power. 

Emma Aubyn. — My God ! my God ! that I had 
known this before it was too late ! 

Seymour. — It may not be too late yet. 

Emma Atibyn. — (^Eagerly.) — How — not too late? 

Seymour. — It is possible that it may not be; if you 
wish it, it shall be probable. 

Emma Aubyn. — Probable ! you would not trifle wdth 
me now ? it would be cruel — very cruel ! 

Seyw^our. — Suppose this Miss Franks should never 
become his wife 't 

Emma Aubyn. — Ah ! you spoke of this before. 

Seymour. — 1 did — all depends on you. 

Emma Aubyn. — On me ! how ? 

Seymour. — You can assist me in breaking off this 
match. 

Emma. Aubyn. — (^Raising her head proudly.') — I as- 
sist you ! Do you think, sir, because I have been be- 
trayed into this weakness before you, that I would 
be capable of descending to such an act as this ? Do 
you think I vv^ould be guilty of such baseness as to se- 
cure my ow^n happiness, by the destruction of an- 
other's? What have I done to deserve this insult? 

Seymour. — (Coldly.) — Pardon me — I was mistaken. 
You led me to suppose that you still loved this young 
man. I find I have been in error. 

Emma Aubyn. — It is because I do love him still, that 
I scorn such an act as you propose. If he ever had 



44 GEORGE SEYMOUR. [ACT II. 

any affection for me, it is past; he has given it to an- 
other — he loves her now — let them be happy — I — I — 
hope they may. — {Holding down her head and iceeping.) 

fiieymour. — We will talk no more on this subject, 
since it gives you so much pain ; and, believe me, I 
would not have mentioned it at all, if I had not thought 
it would have been for your good, I will see Mrs, 
Bochefort now. 

Enwia Aubjjn. — Before I tell her you are here, let 
me ask you once more, if you are perfectly assured of 
the truth of all you have just told me ? 

Seymour. — I am perfectly. 

Emma Aubyn. — It appears so impossible to me, that 
I find it very hard to belie ve^ — very hard. Pardon 
me, but by what means has it come to your knowl- 
edge ? 

Seymour. — Mrs. Bochefort, with her own lips, con- 
fessed it to me— and, eyen more than this, boasted of 
it. 

Emma Aubyn. — God of Heaven ! how cruelly 1 have 
been deceived ! You have caused me much misery, 
sir — -very much miser}^. It would have been far 
kinder to have left me in ignorance of all this. You 
have taught me almost to hate her whom I loved with 
a child's affection : but for you I would never have 
known how cruelly she has wronged me : I would still 
have had a mother. Now, I am alone—alone in the 
wide world : for, from this night—even though I 
should be driven to beg for my support— this shall no 
longer be my home. 

Seymour, — Let my home be j^ours, Emma — as your 
guardian, I pray you accept my offer. All I have told 
you, I meant in kindness, and in the hope of securing 
jour future happiness. If I have erred, forgive me — 
Bay you forgive me, Emma, ray daughter ? Will you 



SCENE III.] GEORGE SEYMOUR. 45 

be my daughter? I am rich; my wealth shall be 
yours — I am childless ; all my heart's love shall be 
centered in you — lam alone in the world; we will be 
companions to each other: you will be my daughter? 

Emma Aubyn. — I do, I do forgive you. You have 
done it for the best. If a daughter's duty and affec- 
tion—if the devotion of my future life — can prove my 
gratitude, they shall be yours. 

Seymour. — Lot this kiss seal our covenant. Hence- 
forth we are father and child. And now to business. 
You will leave this house with me to-night? 

Emma Aubyn. — No — not to-night — not to-night. — 
I wish before I go, to — to — see — G-erald. 

Seymour. — It must not be, Emma. Give over this 
wish, my child, and I promise that you shall meet 
again before many days. 

Emma Aubyn. — But when he discovers that I am 
gone, what can he think ? 

Seymour. — He shall know the truth : to his mother 
shall be left the task of informing him. 

Emma Aubyn. — What? Of every thing? 

Seymour. — Of every thing. Unless, as quite possi- 
ble, she should invent another story to deceive him. — 
I will, however, take care that he shall know the 
facts. As soon as we reach home, you may write 
to him, and also, his mother, explaining to them the 
circumstances under which you acted, and which 
caused you to seek another home. 

Emma Aubyn. — Then I will go with you, and if I 
am acting ungratefully, may God forgive me ! 

[^Exeuent, 



46 GEORGE SEYxMOUR. [ACT II. 



SCENE IV. 
HALL. 

Enter George Seymour. — [Disiguised in a large Cloak — his faco 
almost entirely concealed by a large fur collar — his Hat 
pressed down over his forehead.] 

Seymour. — Boy 1 — {Calling.) 

Enter Denny Conner. 

Bevmj. — Good mornin', sir; it's a j^leasant mornin' 
for walkiii', sir. 

Seymour. — So much the better, for you are about 
to walk. 

Dtnny — I'm not sorry for that same. 

Seymour. — Could not you contrive to hold youv 
tongue for half a moment, while I give you your com- 
ma n ds ? — (^Sharply.) 

JJenny. — I'll do my best. 

Seymour. — Well, then, do you know where Mr. 
Franks lives? 

Denny. — Be my sowl ! if walkin' up and down the 
door two or three hours of an evenin' 'ud make me 
know it, I ought to be able to find the way by this 
time 

Seymour. — Silence, fool ! and listen to me. 

Denny. — Yes, sir. 

Seymour. — (^Sternly.) — You had better not interrupt 
ine again. 

Denny. — No, sir, I won't say another word. 

Seymour. — Listen to me then. 

Denny. — I'm lis'nin', sir. 



SCENE IV.] GEORGE SEYMOUR. 47 

Seymour. — Take this letter 

Denny. — Yes, sir. 

Seymour. — Silence I I say. 

Denny. — Mum's the word. 

Seyiiiour. — Take this letter^ and go at once to Mr. 
FrauK's 

Denny. — I'll go this rainnit, sir. 

Seymour. — Will you hold your tongue? 

De,nny. — -Am'n't I houldin' it? 

Seymour. — See Mr. Franks himself, cind give it into 
his own hand 

Denny. — But if he's out, sir ? 

Seymour. — Then wait until you see him- 



Denny. — But if he sends down word that he loonH 
see me? 

Seymour. — Psha I no matter how you do it, give him 
the letter, and be sure you bring the answer safe 

Denny. — But if I get no answer ? 

Seymour. — Tell me what he says; 

Denny. — An' if he says nothin'? 

Seymour. — Confound the boy! Do as I desire you. 
Lose no time. — (^Handing the letter.^ 

Denny. — I won't be while you'd be sayin' thrapstick ! 

Seymour. — Take care you keep that letter safe. 

Denny. — I thought you bid me give it to Mis^ther 
Franks ? 

Seymour. — So I did, you stupid scoundrel. 

Denny. — An' now you bid me keep it. 

Seymour. — Was there ever such a brute ! Begone 
this instaat ! 

Denny. — Are jow goin' tosto-p here ? 

Seymour. — You'll find me here when you return. 

\-ExU. 

Denny. — May be you think I'm not wide awake for 
you I — maybe you think I don't know what you're 



48 GEORGE SEYMOUR. [ACT H. 

about ! but I'll soon let you know what's what. I'm 
wideawake! I'm up to snuff ! AValls have ears, and 
so have I ! Ah ! Dinny, me boy ! I have it ! There's 
that Tom Crosbie : he desaved me about my carrack- 
ther. the divle roast him ! But he's a frind of Masther 
Garald, an' if an}^ thini>-'s wrong in this letther, he'll 
help me find it out. I)ivle a word can I read, or I'd 
open it rneself. The old hay then, he little thought he 
had two pair of ears lis'nin', when he threatened to 
put Masther Eochefort's mother in prison. Oh, the 
nayger! But walls have ears, and so have II So here's 
to Masther Tom's. {Exit. 



SCENE V. 

DRAWING ROOM. 

Enter George Seymour. — [After walking the room hurriedly for 
a few moments, approaches the Table and rings the Bell.] 

Enter Servant. 

Seymour. — Tell your Mistress that Mr. Seymour ia 
here, and wishes to see her instantly. 

[Exit Servant. 

Enter Mrs. Rochefort. 

Mrs. R. — (^Advancing towards Seymour.) — Villain I 
what is this you have done? What frightfal crime 
do 5-0U contemplate, that you have forced this young 
girl from her home ? 

Seymour. — When you have quite done performing 
the part of a Pythoness, and think proper to use Ian- 



SCENE v.] GEORGE SEYMOUR. 49 

guagc a little less violent^ I may perhaps give the in- 
lormatioii yon require. 

iUrs. B. — Oh, (rod ! grant me patience, for my trials 
are great ! Man ! I ask you what is this you have 
done '/ ^yhy have you taken away this child r* 

Seymour.-— As to what I have done, you can be at 
no loss to know ; and as to having taken aAvay your 
ward, I beg at once to undeceive 3^ou, by refering you 
to her letter, from which you vv'ill perceive that she 
has acted of her own free will. 

Mrs. i?.-— Yes ! her own free will ! But what des- 
perate villany has influenced her to exercise that wiliy 
What arts and falselioods have 3^ou used to poison her 
mind against me ? 

Seymonr. — Kone whatever, Madam. If you will be 
good enough to recollect yourself for a moment, I 
think you will allow that the simple truth would be 
quite sufficient. This I have told her^ but nothing 
more. 

3Irs. R. — I will not believe it ! I cannot believe 
that the mere fact of my liaving 

i^eymour. — Robbed her I 

3Irs. R. Having appropriated her fortune, could 

make her take this step^ without a word of notice or 
explanation. 

Seymour. — Oh, everj^ one may not think so lightly 
and forgivingly of the crime of robbery as Mrs. Koche- 
fort. 

Mrs. R. — (^Covering her face with her hands, and sink- 
ing into a chair.) — G-od mij me, for this man has no 
mercy. 

Seymour. — Mercy ! what mercy have jow deserved ? 
Where was your mercy when you crushed the heart 
that loved you better than all things on earth, or in 
lleavon— -when you drove to madness and desperation 



50 GEORGE SEYMOUR. [ACT II. 

one wlio, but for you, might have won from the world 
a proud and honorable name, instead of being plunged 
into a career of vice and viilany — changing this world 
to a hell, that leaves no terrors for the next. Woman ! 
you have changed me to a devil !- — (^Dashes his \hand 
against Ms forehead.)— -Yon ask me Avhy I have taken 
away this girl. Listen, and you shall hear— -to be an 
instrument of panishment for the wrong you have 
done to her ; and to aid me in the fulfilment of that 
revenge which I have sworn against you and yours. 

3frs. JR. — Aid you ! how ? She has never injured 
5'ou. You would not destroy her ? 

Seymour. — Her ! Not for a thousand worlds ; I will 
cherish her while I live, and at my death she shall 
be mistress of all I possess on earth. When you are 
rotting in a jail, or begging from door to door, the 
orphan you have robbed, whom you would have left 
to starve, shall shine the proudest amongst those who 
have cast you oif forever, and with wliom in future 
your name shall be a bye-word and a scorn I If you 
can glean any comfort from this knowledge, you are 
welcome to it ! 

Mrs. B. — {Bising calmly from her chair, and speaking 
in a clear distinct tone.) — You are deceived — you are 
deceived in thinking that 1 will submit to this : the 
worm at last will turn upon the foot that crushes it. 
My course is now clear before me, and you shall find 
that I, too, can be determined ; this night my son 
shall be informed of everything. 

Seymour.- — Such is my intention. For that purpose 
I am here 

Mrs. jR.-— What I and you will dare to face him 
when he has learned all your viilany ? 

Seymour.-—! will dare more than that. Madam ; for 
with my own lips I will tell him all that I have done ; 



SCENE v.] GEORGE SEYMOUR. 51 

and moreover, all that you have done ! So you sec 
you are not likely to gain any great advantage by 
your determi n ation . 

3Irs. B. — If lie knew — if my boy knew one half of 
the miseiy you have caused his parents — one tithe of 
the insults ^-^ou have offered to his mother — he would 
crush you to the earthy if you had a thousand lives ! 
and he sliaJl know it ! 

Seymour. — (^Askle.') — This will be a losing game un- 
less I play my cards more skillfully. It will not 
answer to meet Gerald, or have his mother see him, 
before I can recover my power over her. ( To Mrs. 
R. — seizing her arm.') — Mark me ! the time has now 
come when all scruples must be thrown aside — Heaven 
nor hell shall baulk me in what 1 have sworn to per- 
form I Attend Avell now to what I am about to say, 
for it will be for your own advantage as well as mine, 
that you should act as I direct. You must tell your 
son the same story which I have already told Emma, 
and which 3'ou liave confirmed, namely, that I am in 
reality her guardian. You can invent what excuses 
3'ou please for never having informed him of such a 
fact until now, and that will end the matter. 

Mrs. JR. — (Smiling scornfully.) — You need say no 
more -, I will rather bear everj^ evil your malice can 
inflict, than be an 3^ longer at your mercy. AYere I 
now to act as you desire, you would to-morrow break 
through all your promises as you have done before. 
Your power is over, tempter ! I defy you ! 

Seymour. — Think again, — think again before you 
refuse. You had better. 

31rs. R. — I have thought already — my resolution is 
fixed — unchangeably fixed. Once more I tell you I 
defy you ! 

Seymour. — Tlien, by Heaven ! 3'ou shall curse the 



52 GEORGE SEYMOUR. [ACT II. 

hour you did so ! Had you yielded to my will, I 
might have spared you — for the sake of her who shall 
henceforth be my child, I might have spared you ; but 
now, now, I will crush you, mind, and heart, and soul, 
as 3^ou have crushed me, without pity, and without 



remorse 



3Irs. it. — I no longer fear you, for 1 have resolved 
to atone for the past, by pursuing a right course for 
the future, and the consciousness of this good resolu- 
tion gives me new strength to uphold me in my pre- 
seiit trial. AVhat more is there in j^our power than to 
tell m}^ son that which 1 am myself resolved to tell 
him! and you will then be more in his power than 
either he or I in yours. What infatuation has been 
over me that 1 have not done this before ! 

Seymour. — AVoman ! you do not know what I am 
capable of doing, if you drive me to desperation ! 

Mrs. li. — You mistake ; I knov/ ftdl well that you 
are capable of every villany that could enter the mind 
of man. 

Seymour. — And, believing this, 3'ou still defy me ? 

Mrs. M. — Yes ! a thousand times, yes I 

Seymour. — Then mark me ! 1 will do that which 
shall make you sucli an object of loathing to your 
child, that, rather than live the son of such a mother, 
he will lift his own hand against his life — that he will 
forfeit his soul in tlie next world, rather than endure 
in this the disgrace that your name will bring upon 
him — and go to his doom calling down curses on you 
with his dying breath ! 

Mrs. M. — Oh, God! what a fiend has this man be- 
come ! 

Seymour.— A. fiend ! yes, and who has made me one ? 
But you little dream of Avhat I will yet do to deserve 
the name! You think, ])erhaps, that my threats arc 
idle:'' 



SCENE v.] GEORGE SEYMOUR. 58 

Jlrs. Ji. — I care not what they are. I despise thein ! 

Seymour. — (Aside.) — There is still one desperate 
chance left me — let that fail and m}' power over her 
is ended. Her honor ! all that slie has left to cling- to ! 
— I will hazard the scheme ! (To Mrs. R.) — Eeniem- 
ber you have driven me to this -, a few words might 
have saved you — might yet save you, if you consent 



Mrs. R. — Never ! I hold no faith with you in future 
— do your worst ! 

Seymour. — Listen, then ! — (Advances close to lier.) — 
Your son alread}^ knows the stor}^ of his lather's ruin 
— he knows that I was the cause of it — that the en- 
tire of his property w^as mortgaged to me, and is still 
in my possession ; — and, knowing this, what think 
you, will be his feelings, when he discovers that since 
that father's death, you have carried on an intercourse 
with me — that you have done so secretly — and that 
within the last few months, you joined with me in a 
plot to make your ward believe that I, as well as you, 
had been named her guardian — when he discovers all 
this, I say, what can he think? Must he not believe 
that you had some powerful motive for acting as you 
have done '( and, once suspicion awakened, will it not 
be a task of but little difficulty to convince him that 
(Pausing.) 

Mrs. i^.— What ! For God's sake, v/hat ? 

Seymour. — Can you not conjecture ? 

Mrs. B. — No, no ! in mercy, speak at once ! What 
■would you convince him ? 

Seymour. — (Stooping his head close to her ear and 
hissing fiercely.) — That his fiither was dishonored! 

3Irs. li — (Springing to the middle of the fi.oor — she 
gazes at him for an instant icith distended eyes — pres.^cs 
her hands upon her forehead — staggers to a table — bnt for 



54 GEORGE SEYMOUR. [ACT II. 

the su2)port of which she icoidd fall to the floor.) — God of 
mercy ! can such a villain be the work of thy hand ? 
Can a man made in thy image, be given a mind to 
promjDt him to such hellish thoughts ? 

Seymour. — I told you you little dreamed of what I 
was capable ; remember you have driven me to it -, 
the consequences be upon your own head ! .But, even 
still it is in j^our power to avert your ruin — consent 
to make to your son the explanation I desire^ and I 
hold my peace. — (Draws near her.) 

Mrs. B. — ( With a look of loatldng motions him hack.) 
If 3^ou are human — if a remnant of manly feeling yet 
lingers in your nature — leave me ! My brain is turn- 
ing to fire — my heart is bursting — reason can bear no 
more! — (With clasped hands and straining eyes, she 
stands before him.) 

Seymour. — Let there be an end to this acting; j^ou 
should, by this time, have learned its fruitlessness, to 
change my purpose. Turn j^our thoughts to what 
may still save you — a few minutes more, and it will 
be too late, for, so sure as there is a Heaven above us, 
if your son returns while I am here, I will fulfill my 
threat ! Consent to what I have demanded, and I 
leave you now — forever ! 

Mrs. R. — (After a iKtuse.) — This is terrible ! — horri- 
ble ! Oh ! my son ! my noble boy ! God keep him 
from the slightest suspicion of this foul attempt to 
poison his mind against his mother! Harm him not, 
sir ! I accept your promise of leaving me for the rest 
of my life in peace, and I promise to do as you desire ! 
(Dropping on her knees and clasping her hands.) — Oh, 
God ! aid me in this terrible struggle ! — (Falls.) 

(Seymour looks on with a smile of triumph.) 

END OF SECOND ACT. 



SCENE I.] GEORGE SEYMOUR. 55 



ACT III .— S C E N E I . 

HALL. 

Enter Dcnnii Conner. 

Denny. — Sliurc, he can't ate me, any how, an' if the 
worst comes to the worst, may be he might come oft' 
second best afther all ! If he isn't the divle — Lord 
betune us an' harm — we'll tache him a thrifle before 
he's much older — we'll let him know what's what — 
yis, be me sowl, cakes an' ale we'll give him. I'm a 
fool ; oh ! 3^8, of coorse I am — I couldn't find out a 
saycret at all — I couldn't listen through a kay hole — ■ 
oh, no ! is it me ? I can do nothin' — not a ha'p'orth 
— it '11 be a while afore I ate house beetles for my sup- 
per, for all that. Wondher where the ould divle is — 
he said he'd be here when I returned. Faix, when I 
got into the strate, a snddint pain tuk me right there 
— (flits his knee,) and I couldn't walk — oh, no ! not a 
bit. — (Dances.') I got into a cart, — the cart got lost 
— an' the boss died, an' the driver ran oft' an' got 
dhrunk, an' left me in the cart fast aslape ! I'll look 
into the rooms an' see if he's here, anyhow ! Who's 
alraid I — (Opens the doors and looks into the different 
rooms opening into the Hall.) — Be gorra, he's not here, 
any how, — got tired waitin' for me. I'm thinkin' I'll 
take a sate. — (Seats himself near tlie front, R. H., facing 
audience.) 

Seymour. — (Out side.) — Boy ! 

Denny. — (Looking round the Hall to ascertain whence 
the voice j^roceeded.) — AVhy, then, where are you at all, 
sir ? 



56 QEOROE SEYMOUR. [aCT III. 

Enter George Seynunir — [Behind Dcnnj — Disguished in a large 
Cloak, his face hidden by the collar.] 

Seymour. — Here ! — {Denny turning round, discovers 
Jiiin.) 

Denny. — (^Syringing from his seat.) — Lord save us ! 
did you come out of the wall ? 

Seymour. — (Sharjjly.) — What has detained you? 

Denny. — (After a little hesitation.) — He ^Yas out; sir. 

Seymour. — Who was out ? 

Denny. — VvMiy, Misther Franks, of ooorse. 

Seymour. — Then you did not see him ? 

Denny. — IS.o, sir. 

Seymour. — Give me the letter. — (Denny IooI<s confu- 
sed.) — Grivc me the letter, I say. 

Denny. — The letther, sir 'I 

Seymour. — Yes, give it to me. 

Denny. — Do you want it back, sir ? 

Seymour. — Yes, I say — where is it? 

Denny. — I thought I was to give it to Misther 
Franks ? 

Seymour. — You say you did not see him 

Demiy. — But may be I might see him in the evenin'. 

Seymour. — (Harshly.) — Cease this trifling, boy, and 
give me the letter. 

Denny. — 'T would be hard for me. 

Seymour. — What ? ^Vhere is it ? 

Denny. — (Boldly.) — Lord knows ! 

Seymour.— (Furiously. )-\N\\^t have you done with it ? 

Denny. — I have done nothin' with it. 

Seymour. — Where is it then ? 

Denny. — ( Carelessly.) — Lost I 

Seymour. — (Starting hack.) — Tjost ! 

Demiy. — Yis, lost ! I hope nothin' partiklar was in 
i(. 



SCENE II.] GEORGE SEYMOUR. 67 

Seymour. — {Sternly , and seizing Denny by the throat.) 
Scoundrel! you have done something with that let- 
ter. 

JDenny. — {Innocently. — Oh, Lord ! — is it me ? What 
in the world 'ud I do with it ? 

Seymour. — Mark me, boy ! if I find that you have 
been trifling with me, j^ou shall pay dearly for it. Can 
you read ? 

Denny. — I wish I could. 

Seymour. — Will you swear that you have not that 
letter still in your possession ? 

Denny. — (Seizing the back of his chair.)— 'Be this book ! 

Seymour. — Psha ! follow me up stairs. 

l^Exeuent. 



SCENE 11 ; 

Sitmour'8 Room. — [Furnished same as in Scene 1, Act 2, with 
the exception that the Table is clear.] 

Enter Oeorge Seymour and Denny Conner. 

[Seymour seats himself at the Table, and motions Denny to coma 
nearer. Denny glances suspiciously around him.] 

Seymour. — You have a mother ? 

Denny. — I have, sir ; an' two brothers an' a little 
sisther. 

Seymour.— I need not ask if they are poor ? 

Denny. — They are. — {Feelingly.) — God help 'em I 

Seymour. — You shall have means to make them rich, 
if you serve me faithfully. Can I trust you ? 

Denny. — {Evasively.) — I'd do anythin' to earn an 
l^onest penny. ■ 

h 



5^ GEORGE SEYMOUR. [ACT III. 

Seymour. — ^Have you a father ? 

Denny. — {In a low voice.) — He's dead, sir, — the Lord 
have mercy on him ! 

tSeynioiir.—And your family have no support but you ? 

Denny. — Barrin' the thrifle my mother aims for 
dain' a day's work here and there, an' that's but little. 

Seymour. — She shall have plenty, if 1 can but trust 
you — can 1 do so ? 

Denny. — {Evasively.) — Did I ever do anythin* to 
make you doubt me since I came here ? 

Seymour. — l^ever, until to-day. 

Denny. — An' why to-day, sir ? 

Seymour. — That letter. 

Denny. — {Innocently .~) — Sure I couldn't help losin^ it, 

Seymour. — Well, I will believe you ; but if you should 
play me false, you shall suffer dearly. Answer me, 
yes, or no — may I trust you ? 

Denny. — {Aside.') — I must say yis, or how the divle 
will I find out his plans — yis, that's the only chance. 
( To Seymour — boldly.) — You may, sir. 

Seymour. — Then listen. You know the gentleman 
who was here a few nights since — Mr. Eochefort ? 

Denny. — Yis, sir. 

Seymour. — Well, attend now to what I am about to 
tell you. I overheard j^our conversation the other 
night, and it is probable he may take you as his ser- 
vant. If he does, you will have an opportunity of 
providing me with a knowledge of his actions, which 
would be of great use to me. Are you willing to un- 
dertake this ? 

Denny. — Is it to be a spy ? 

Seymour. — Call it what you will, but it will be for 
Ms benefit as well as mine. 

Denny. — {Indigyiantly .) — An' is that wliat you call 
bein' faithful ? 



BCENE II.] GEORGE SEYMOUR. ^9 

Seymour. — You say I can trust you, and this is the 
service I require. 

Denny. — {Indignantly.') — Why, thin, a dirty sarvice 
it is. 

Seymour. — What ? — (Starting from Ms seat.) — Have 
you been trifling with me? 

Denny. — {Recollecting himself.) — Is it me, sir ? J^ot 
meself, in troth ; I was only thinkin' that may be 
some people wouldn't considher it a very dacent soort 
of emplo^'-mcnt ; but I'll do it with a heart and a half 
— I'll watch him like a cat watchin' a mouse — there 
isn't a turn of his hand, from the time he gets up in 
the mornin' till he goes to bed at night, that I won't 
have my eye on. 

Seymour. — So far bo good ; and now you must com- 
mence at once. But, stay ! you have known him be- 
fore ? 

Denny. — No more than the child unborn, barrin' to 
see him once or twice. 

Seymour. — Well, then, you shall have another letter 
to Mr. Franks this evening. Mr. Rochefort will pro- 
babl}^ be there. If he is, watch him, and tell him you 
have been turned away from this place for speaking to 
him the other night — you understand me 't He will be 
sure to take you into his service at once, for, even as 
it is, he is anxious to learn my secrets, and he thinks 
you can discover them. Tell him you have lived with 
me for some time — that I am a rich old miser — that I 
live here iilone, never seeing a human being but those 
who come to look for money, and that j'our business 
was to watch the house during m}*" absence, and run 
of messages now^ and then. You must never divulge 
anj'thing you may have seen or heard since you came 
here, but you may invent as many lies as you please, 
the greater the better — concerning me. Do you un- 
derstand? 



^ GEORGE SEYMOUR. [AOT III. 

Denny. — It's as plain as the nose on my face. 
Seymour. — That will do. [Exit. 

Denny. — Oh ! you dasaiving ould villain of the 
world — ^yoii thundherin' ould Turk of a vagabone ! — 
Tm up to your thricks — I'll watch, never fear, but it's 
3^ourself, an' nobody else — you make me rich — you 
give my mother plinty ! I wouldn't touch your goold, 
novv^ that I know you, not if I was starvin' ; an' I'd 
sooner see my mother stretched lyin' dead before me, 
than she should handle a fardin' or half a fardin' of 
the wages of villany an' dasate. If we're poor we're 
honest, an' where's the man, woman, or child, that 
could point a linger at aither of us this minnit, an' say 
we ever done 'em an ill turn ? That's more than he 
can say the dishilute ould haythen-— it \s.--{Wal1xS 
'proudly through the room.) 

Re-e7iter George Seymour. 

Seymour.— -1 have changed my mind; I shall not 
write to Mr. Franks until to-morrow. But see Mr. 
Bochefort to-night if possible, and let me know in the 
morning how you have succeeded. 

Denny. — Am I to slape here to-night, sir ? 

Seymour. — No, I shall not want you. To-morrow 
early you will find me here— -meanwhile be cautious. 

\_Exit. 

Denny. — He's not the divle afther all, or I couldn't 
dasaive him that way : but faix he's a near relation, 
I'm thinkin', lExit 



SCENE III.] GEORGE SJuYMOUR. 01 

SCENE III. 

Gerald RocHEroRT's Room. — [Gerald discovered writing.] 

Enter Tom Crosbie. 

Tom, — Gerald, my boy, how are you ? Delighted 
IVe caught you at home. Come, throw aside that 
billet-doux, for the present — you can finish it by ^nd 
by — the lady will lose nothing by the delay, for I'll 
help you with a few metaphors when business is con- 
cluded. Swan-like neck, snowy bosom, golden hair, 
diamond eyes, ruby lips, pearly teeth, and all that sort 
of thing. We'll make her out a sort of animated 
Golconda, or compare her to one of the pieces of raw 
beef brought up by the eagles from Sinbad's " Valley 
of Diamonds.^' There's an id-ea for you, you dog I — 
QSlaps him on the shoulder.) 

Gerald. — Well, Crosbie, — (laughing,) — I believe if 
you were sentenced to speak seriously for five minutes, 
it would be your death. Were you ever serious since 
you were born ? 

Tom. — Serious ! Sir, you insult me by the question ! 
In comparison to me, Calvin was a clown, and Martin 
Luther a merry andrew ! When I was Prime Minister 
to the King of Ashantee, his Majesty surnamed mo 

the , I needn't repeat the words, since you 

don't understand the language, but in the vernacular 
they signify — the '^Sugar-stick of Sense," and the 
" Winnowing Machine of Wisdom." What do you 
think of that, sir ? Was Sir Eobert Peel ever called 
a sugar-stick of sense, let me ask you? or Lord Mel- 
bourne, a winnowing machine of wisdom ? No, sir ! 
nor never will ! The Majesty of England has its gold- 



62 GEORGE SEYMOUR. [ACT III. 

Stick; and its silver-stick, but it never yet has been 
able to find a man sufficiently saccharine to enable 
him to be called a sugar-stick I 

Gerald. — (^Laughing.) — I humbl}^ ask pardon of your 
sweetness; in future I shall consider Solomon a fool 
to you, and the '^ Wise Men of Gotham '' a society of 
numscuUs. Pray, b}^ seated. .But, what's the matter 
with you now ? you seem to have grown thoughtful 
all in a minute ; nothing unpleasant has occurred, 1 
hope ? 

To7n. — In the first place, my dear Gerald — and 1 
know 3^ou won't think me intrusive, for thus interfer- 
ing in so delicate a matter — I must tell you that I 
have discovered one or two of your secrets, which, 
perhaps, you would rather had not come to the ears 
of such a harum-scarum individual as your humble 
servant. But just let me tell you how it happened. — 
A few da^^s since Dennis Conner came to me in great 
confusion of mind. Says I, " why you ragged rascal, 
what brings you here ? What evil deed is in the wind ?" 
^^ That's it,'' replied Denny, " the ver}^ thing I come 
about — I'm afeard some evil deed is in the wind, Mis- 
ther Tom." "Well," I replied, '-out with it at once 
— what the deuce is it ?" " Mischief," says Denny, 
^•that's what it is; an' schamin',an' all sorts of vagabone 
thricks — divle a less." Well, after a little persuasion, 
he informed me he was living with an old man — a sort 
of money lender — that you paid him a visit not long 
since, and were closeted with the old man for some 
time. Having known you, he felt curious to find out 
the purport of your visit — in short, that he listened at 
the key hole, and that he heard enough to make him 
suspect all was not right. The old man had intrusted 
iiim with a letter, cautioning him to be particular and 
let no one have it but Mr. Franks. ISlot being able to 



I 



SCENE III.] GEORGE SEYMOUR. 63 

read himself, Deimy thoiigbt he'd hriog it to me be- 
fore he'd deliver it to Mr. Franks. There being no 
direction. on the envelope, 1 conchided to open it, fov 
I thought if there was any mischief afloat against you, 
I woukl like to know it. — I opened the letter, and, 
after reading it, concluded to retain it, and send Den- 
ny back to watch the old man, to see if he could dis- 
cover anything more. This morning Denny came to 
me again. It appears the old man has employed Den- 
ny to pretend to have been discharged for speaking to 
you on the night of your visit, and try and get you to 
take him as 3'our servant. This just suited the plan 
formed by Denny and myself, so he agreed at once to 
the proposal. This he told me this morning. But, 
read that, perhaps it may open your eyes a bit. — • 
{Handing letter.') 

Gerald. — ( Reads.) — " Sir — If you value the happiness 
of your daughter, you will, for the present, at least, 
suffer matters to proceed no further between her and 
the person you have chosen for her husband. The 
writer of this caution, though, for certain reasons, ho 
cannot, as yet, appear in his proper person, is a friend 
who is deeply interested in both parties, and it is solely 
with their welfare in view that he now acts. His ad- 
vice, however, is, that the visits of Mr. Eochefort may 
be permitted to continue as usual for a few days, in 
the course of vfhich, circumstances now involved in 
some doubt, shall be investigated, and the result made 
known to you." 

Gerald. — By Heavens I — (dashing his hand on the 
table,) — the old villain shall pay dearly for this ! I 
will go to him this instant. Crosbie, you will accom- 
pany me ? There is some mystery here that must bo 
unravelled 

Torn. — Take things quietly, my dear fellow. We'll 



M GEORGE SEYMOUR. [ACT III. 

walk into him before long, with the blessing of the 
Lord ; the longer we let him run his course, the surer 
we'll have him at the end. He's a nice specimen of 
that respectable class called " elderly gentlemen,'' I 
fancy. But, Gerald, have you any idea of his motives 
for acting toward you as he has done ? 

Gerald. — Not the slightest. Until a night or two 
ago, I never saw him to my knowledge. 

Tom. — It is the strangest thing I ever heard; for 
my part, I can make neither head nor tail of it, but, 
please the fates, it won't be so long — it's odd if we 
don't unkennel the old fox, and lohen we do, perhaps 
we won't run him to earth in a style that Melton 
himself might be proud of ! Yoicks ! my boy ! cheer 
up; he little knows, this morning, the pleasant sur- 
prise that's preparing for him ! But I quite forgot to 
tell you that Denny the Cute is outside waiting all 
this time. 

Gerald. — We'll have him in this moment ; but be- 
fore he comes, Crosbie, I must tell 3^ou how deeply 1 
thank you for jowv conduct in this affair. I trust I 
may yet have it in my power to do you a similar ser- 
vice. 

Tom. — Thank you kindly, you're mighty civil, but 
if it's all the same to 3"0u, I'd rather you'd never have 
the power to do any such thing. I'm bad enough, 
Lord knows, already, without being made the second 
edition of the Mysteries of IJdolpho. No, no, Gerald, 
my boy, nothing of the kind ! And as to thanks — just 
keep them until I ask for them. [^Exit. 

Re-enter Tom Croshie ivith Denny Conner. 

Gerald. — Well, my friend, so I find that j^ou've been 
committing felony on my behalf Sit down, and telt 
me all about it. — {^Denny seats himself.) 



SCENE III.] GEORGE SEYMOUR. 65 

Tom. — Now, Dinny, you scoundrel, tell Mr. Eoelie- 
fort every thing you have already told me, and don't 
be all day about it. 

Benny. — I won't be while a cat ^ud be lickin' her 
ear. You see, sir, I'se a poor boy with a mother, two 
brothers an' a sisther to support, an' in gettin' along I 
am compelled to sarve all kind of rich raskels an' 
vagabones — I lived with Misther Tom Crosbie, here, 
once, your honor, for two years. Well, about [sax 
months ago this ould haythen I am now with, come 
across me, an' tuk me to run of errands an' watch 
that ould house where you come the other night, 
while he ^ud be away at his house in another part of 
the city 

Gerald. — AVhat ! do you tell me, that this employer 
of yours does not live in the old house where I visited 
him? 

Denny. — Yis, sir; sure enough he doesn't. If he 
did he'd be mighty apt to know what sort of a bite a 
rat can give; for of all the places ever I seen, that same 
ould house flogs for the infernal varmint — bad loock 
to thim ! 

To7n. — But you know where he does live, Dinny, 
don't you ? 

Denny. — May bo I could make a guess. 

Tom. — Come, then, out with it ! 

Denny. — Oh, faix, a snug spot he lives in — a body 
might slape there long enough afore the rats 'ud come 
to ate a supper off his nose — divle sind thim an appe- 
tite ! It's thim that's hard to plase ! But sure it's no 
wondher the poor ignorant bastes should bite the nose 
off a poor bo}^ like me, whin I hear people say the 
quality ate the j^ojye's nose — Christ save us I— (Crosses 
himself.) 

i 



QB GEORGE SEYMOUR. [ACT III. 

Tom. — How did you discover the fact of your Mas- 
ter having a diiferent residence ? 

Denny. — Bedad, Masther Tom, the same way a 
Htorney — (sweet bad loock to thim !) — once behaved 
Kke a christian — by chance. — That's how it was. 

Tom. — Well, let us hear it. 

Denny. — Hear which, sir ? About the ^ttorney, is 
it? 

To7n. — (Furiously.') — No ! the attorney be damned ! 

Denny. — All in good time ! It's how I found out the 
ould thief's saycret you want to hear ? 

Tom. — Yes — and let me warn you to say nothing 
more about either rats or attorn eys, or any other ver- 
min whatever. — Mind that. 

Den7iy. — Well, you see, gintlemen, the way of it was 
this. On the night Masther Garald visited the old 
miser, I had began to be suspicious of the ould hay- 
then, an' 1 tuk it into my head to watch, an' see if I 
couldn't make some discoveries — so I put my ear 
to the kay hole, an' heard every blissid wortl atween 
the ould vagabone and Masther Grarald, an' I thought I 
could see a piece of schamin' divlement, that a tailor 
'ud be ashamed of. Afther Masther Garald wint away, 
I thought 1 would lave the ould house to take care of 
itself awhile, an' stroll through the town for an hour 
or so. Well, afther walkin' here a bit an' there a bit, 
I come on to Baggot strate, and just as I got forninst 
a fine house, I seen a gintlcman going into the door. 
Just as the gintleman turned round to close the door, 
the light of the hall lamp shone bright in his face, an' 
I discovered he was no other than my ould Turk of a 
Master. The white hair an' beard were gone, an' so 
was the stoop in the shoulder. Oh, ho ! thought I, 
this is a mighty purty piece of bus'ness ! 

G-erald. — l)o you mean to tell me, that the person 



SCENE III.] GEORGE SEYMOUR. 67 

I saw and conversed with at that mined house, is not 
an old man ? 

Denny. — Truth it's just the very thing I do mane. 

Gerald. — And that his hair and beard were not real ? 

Denny. — I don't say that; they are rayal enough, I 
dar' say, but the hair never grew white on his head, 
an' mighty little shavin' 'ud go a great way with that 
beard, I'm thinkin'. 

Gerald. — By Heavens ! there is some terrible villany 
here ! but I cannot understand it. My brain is every 
instant becoming more and more confused. Crosbie, 
what is to be done ? 

Tom. — Stop a bit ; tell me this, Dinny — how long 
have you been in the service of this man ? 

Denny. — Four or five months, off an' on ; some times 
he'd say he was lavin' town, an' send me home for a 
fornight ; more times he'd have me slape there with 
the rats, bad loock to thim ! 

Tom. — And you never suspected, all that time, that 
he was anything but what he appeared to be ? 

Denny. — l!s"o, in troth ; I knew he was as rich as a 
Jew, for I ofthen seen hapes of bank notes the height 
of my knee on the table before him, an' divle a much 
I cared what he was, while he paid mo my wages. 
But whin he began this bis'ness about Masther Garald, 
an' uset to sind me to watch him goin' and comin' 
from Masther Franks', I began to smell a rat — an' be 
my sowl I ought to know the smell of thim purty well 
by this time ! So I just tuk it in my head that he 
was no great shakes, an' now I am sure of it. 

Tom. — Did he ever sleep in that old house himself? 

Denny. — Oh, yis, indeed ! What a fool my granny 
was ! 

Tom. — Did he eat his meals there ? 

Denny. — Not as much as 'ud blind a midge's eye ever 



68 GEORGE SEYMOUR. [ACT III. 

crossed his lips in that same house, barrin' a biscuit 
now an' thin, an' a glass of wine. 

Tom. — Did any one ever meet him there ? 

Denny. — Ofthen. Men ofthen came there, an' were 
closeted up with him hour afther hour. 

Tom. — Wliy didn't you put your ear to the keyhole 
then, Din-ny ? 

Denny. — Bekase I was a fool : that's just the rason ! 

Tom. — Did you ever hear his name ? 

Denny. — Never with Ms knowledge. 

Gerald. — Then you did hear it ? 

Denny. — I did, sir. The night I found him out, I 
wint an' axed the sarvints next door 

Gerald. — Well, well ? Quick, man ! what was it ? 

Denny. — Misther Seymour ! 

Gerald — {In a loud ciuick tone.) — What ! did you say 
Seymour ? 

Denny. — That's the very word. 

Gerald. — I sec it all ! I understand it all, now ! 
The desperate villain ! 

Tom. — Then you know him ? 

Gerald. — Know him! Do I know the man who has 
made me a beggar, and worse — a thousand times worse 

— who has {Pauses.') — Crosbie, you shall hear the 

entire story to-night. In the meantime, I will take 
the necessary steps to unravel a portion of this mys- 
tery ; and Dennis, until then, do you return to your 
employer ; watch him well, and bring me intelligence 
of anything that happens. You have done me a 
greater service than you think, and you shall not 
want a friend as long as I live. 

Denny. — Don't spake of that, Masther Garald ; you 
saved the life of my poor ould mother whin she had 
the sickness, glory be to God ! an' Denny Conner, for 
all his rags, has fcelin' in his heart. — {Turns his head 
and loipes a tearfrotn his eye.) 



SCENE IV.] GEOROE SEYMOUR, G9 

Tom. — ^Yell, Gerald, my boy ! I told you we'd un- 
kennel the old fox I [Exeuent Tom and Gerald. 

Denny. — I'm as happy as a king ! an' as to you, my 
ould Masther, you thunderin' vagabone ! your bread 
is baked ! Only wait a bit ! \_Exit singing, 

I'll let you know, 
Before you go, 
What a beau your granny was ! 



SCENE IV. 

Paklor. — [Mr. Franks discovered walking the Eoom.] 
Enter Gerald Rochefort. 

Mr. Franks. — Oh I good morning, Mr, Kochefort ! 
When did you come to town ? 

Gerald. — I have not been out of town. 

Mr. Franks. — Oh, you haven't, haven't you? then 
may I take the liberty of asking you, where you have 
been? 

Gerald. — Indeed, sir, my absence has been unavoid- 
ble. I am sure you must know that anywhere but 
here I could not be happy. 

Mr. Franks. — I know no such thing, sir ! I don't 
believe a word of it. In my time it was the fashion 
for a man, if he loved a girl, to spend at least some 
portion of his time in her society 

Gerald. — Indeed, sir 

Mr. Franlis. — Fiddlestick ! sir. Don't interrupt me. 
I say, in my time, such was the fashion, and let me 
tell you, that if Jessie took my advice, she'd have 



70 GEORGE SEYMOUR. [aCT III. 

nothing more to say to you. Do you hear that, sir ? 
If you neglect her so shamefully 5e/o?'e marriage, what 
may she expect afterward ? 

Gerald. — But, my dear sir 

Mi\ Franks. — Make no excuses, sir ! I'll not listen 
to them. I suppose you would not come even now if 
you had not been sent for ? 

Gerald. — I assure you, sir, I was just leaving the 
house to come, when I received Jessie's note. 

Mr. Franks. — Well, I suppose I must believe you. 
Ah, yes, poor Marj^ Trevor, it was at her request 
Jessie sent for you. Sit down ; I am in no happy hu- 
mor this morning, Grerald, so you must excuse any- 
thing I have said. Yesterday morning I received the 
information of the death of one of my former clerks. 
He had, for ten years, been in India, and I was not 
aware of his return, until I was informed of his death. 
His daughter and Jessie, when children, were as sis- 
ters, and I immediately sent for Mary. It appears 
they had returned about seven years since, nearly all 
of which time he had been confined to his bed, with a 
disease contracted while in India. On the eve of his 
embarkation he was intrusted with a package, and, 
although every effort was made on their part to dis- 
cover the person to whom it was addressed, they were 
not fortunate enough to do so. In a conversation 
between the two girls, Jessie happened to mention 
your name. This brought to Mary's memory this 
mysterious package, and, it appears that, however 
strange the coincidence may seem, this paper is ad- 
dressed to you. 

Gerald. — To me ! There must be some mistake. 
What was the name of the person from whom your 
former clerk received it ? 

Mr. Franks. — That I cannot tell. However, as to 



SCENE IV.] GEORGE SEYMOUR. 71 

a mistake, you will soon have an opportunity of con- 
vincing yourself, for J essie has the paper. — ( Rings.) 

Enter Servant. 

Inform your Mistress that Mr. Eochefort is here, and 
bid her to come here. \^Exit Servant. 

Enter Jessie Franks with the Package. 

Jessie, my love, I have explained to Mr. Eochefort the 
circumstances under which this paper came into poor 
Trevor's hands. — (Jessie hands the ixichage to Gerald, 
who glances eagerly over the superscription.) 

Mr. Franks. — Well, Gerald, is it for jow. ? 

Gerald. — It certainly must be, sir; the address puts 
it beyond all possibility of doubt. — (Beads the address.) 
"To be delivered into the hands of Gerald Eochefort, 
Esq. — only son, and heir of John Eochefort and 
Catharine Austyn, his wife. Or, in the event of his 
death, to be opened by his mother, the said Catharine 
Eochefort ; but should both be dead, then this paper 
to be destroyed, as the contents can be of no service 
to any other person whomsover." 

Mr. Franks. — Then you had better lose no time in 
making yourself acquainted with its contents. But 
perhaps you would rather return home before you do 
so. 

Gerald. — With your leave, my dear sir, I will read 
it here, it can contain no secret which should be hidden 
from 

Jessie. — Me ! Come, Gerald, open it at once, and let 
us hear what frightful plot it is intended to reveal. I 
am dying with curiosity. 

Gerald. — Then your curiosity shall speedily be grat- 



72 GEORGE SEYMOUR. [aCT III. 

ified. — {Breaks the seals. The package coyitains several 
papers — letters and notes — promissory notes and bills. — 
One paper, the largest, is sealed and direeted in a similar 
maimer to the outside envelope. This Gerald oyens and 
runs his eyes over the contents.') 

Gerald. — My dear sir. — {Seizing Mr. F. by the hand 
and shaking it heartily.') — My dear sir, congratulate me ! 
Jessie, congratulate me! — {Clasps her in his arms, 
kissing her several times.) 

Mr. Franks. — As soon as you have smothered my 
daughter, and while somebody is going for the coroner, 
perhaps you'd have the goodness to inform me, upon 
what grounds a man should be congratulated on becom- 
ing a candidate for Bedlam ! 

Jessie. — If it is quite the same to you, papa, I would 
much rather he'd postpone the smothering, and let us 
have the explanation first. 

Gerald. — My dear sir, my dear Jessie, I'm the hap- 
piest man alive ! 

Mr. Franks. — Then I must say, I hope I may never 
see any one happy again, if my fingers are to be 
ground to mummy, by wa}'' of expressing his delight. 

Gerald. — Will no one wish me joy? — Jessie, why 
don't you wish me joy ? 

Mr. Franks. — What the devil should we wish you 
joy for ? Is it for losing your senses? 

Jessie. — You forget, Grerald, dear, you have not told 
us the contents of that paper. 

Gerald. — By Jove ! I believe I have lost my senses! 
But just listen to this: — {Beads:) 

"I, Walter Stevenson, being in the last stage of a 
fatal illness, and about to appear before my God, do 
make this confession, believing it to be in all p>arts 
true, and in the sincere hope that it may be the means 



SCENE IV.] GEORGE SEYMOUR. 73 

of repairing the fortunes of a family, in whose ruin, I 
acknowledge, with deep remorse, I was made au agent. 
I had for years been the principal confederate and only 
confidant of George Seymour, Vv^ho, for some reasons 
which he would never avow, had conceived an intense 
and unconquerable hatred against Mr. John Roche- 
fort. I was introduced to Mr. Eochefort by Mr. Sey- 
mour, as a man of large fortune, for the purpose of 
inducing him to gamble for immense sums. At first, 
we played fairly, but, finding that we could not succeed 
speedily in the destruction of our victim, we had re- 
course to cheating and foul play of every description. 
An agreement was made by Seymour and myself^ by 
which he was to receive all sums of money and per- 
sonal securities won from Mr. Eochefort, and 1 to be 
paid a certain amount as my share of the spoils. 
When we had stripped Mr. Eochefort of all his ready 
money, Seymour advanced him immense sums on 
mortgage, which sums quickly found their way back 
again into Seymour's hands, and again advanced, un- 
til, by degrees, the entire of Mr. Eochefort's property 
came into Seymour's hands. Vvhen this consum.mation 
of his villan}^ was accomplished, Seymour paid me my 
share of the spoils, andinsisted on my leaving the coun- 
try — which was part of the compact between us. I had 
been but a short time in India, when I heard of Mr. 
Eochefort's death ', and, from that hour, 1 have never 
known a moment's peace of mind, but rem.orse, prey- 
ing on my health, gradually reduced mo to the brink 
of the grave, and now, on my death bed, I make this 
confession, as the only restitution in my power. The 
enclosed bills are some of those obtained from Mr. 
Eochefort, and kept by me without Seymour's knowl- 
edge, and the letters, some of which are in vSeymour's 
own handwriting, and some copies, will prove llie 
j 



T-1 GEORGE SEiTMOUR. [ACT 111. 

truth of the above statements, and may probably be 
of service, in enabling the wife or son of Mr. Koche- 
fort, to recover the property which he had thus been 
robbed of. Walter Stevenson. 

" Attest, 

" ElCIIARD SaNDFORD, 

'' Eector St. Paul's Church, Calcutta." 
Underneath is written : 

" A few hours after the above was completed, Wal- 
ter Stevenson departed this life — I sincerely trust for 
a better and a happier one. At his request, 1 deliver 
this document into the hands of a gentleman who was 
a kind friend to him during his last illness, and who, 
being about to return to England, has promised to 
fulfil his wishes respecting it. 

" Charles Bellmear, Clerk. 

" Calcutta, August 24, 1814." 

Mr. Franks. — (^Grasping Gerald's hand and dancing.') 
Hurrah, my boy ! three cheers ! The damned villain ! 
Jessie — the infernal villain I Jessie, I say — ^oh, the 
desperate villain ! Jessie, why the devil don't you 
sing? You have no more feeling than that table — 
why don't you throw your arms round his neck and 
wish him joy ? 

Jessie. — I'm afraid of being smothered, papa ! 

Mr. Franks. — Afraid of the devil, Miss ! Walk over 
here this minute. 

Jessie. — Well, then, when the coroner comes, remem- 
ber you are the cause of t(\j death ! — (^Approaches 
Gerald and holds out her hand.) — Dear G-erald, I con- 
gratulate 3"ou with all my heart. 

]\f.r. Franks. — (Walks behind her, and, with a vigor- 



SCENE IV.] GEORGE SEYMOUR. 75 

Otis push, sends her into Gerald's mnis.) — For three 
straws I'd horsewhip you ! standing there shilly-shal- 
lying, when you know, in your heart, you're dying to 
be at him! Bah! I hate such humbugging !^ Kiss 
him, I say — the damned villain ! 

Gerald. — Sir ! 

31r. Franks. — Oh, a thousand pardons — I meant 
that damned villain, Seymour ! Is he alive ? 

Gerald. — He is, sir ; not only alive, but at this very 
moment in Dublin. 

Mr. Franks. — In Dublin ! Just wait while I get my 
hat. — (Bushing towards the door.) 

Gerald. — Stay, my dear sir ; we'll have him ; time 
en ough 

3fr. Franks. — Have him ? AYe'll hang him, sir ! up 
by the neck ! He shall be hanged, drawn, and quar- 
tered — and 7'oast, sir, roast alive ! 

Jessie. — After his being quartered, I suppose ? 

3fr. Franks. — Leave the room, Ma'am ! you're a 
disgrace to your sex, and your sex is a disgrace to the 
world. 

Jessie. — And the world 

Mr. Franks. — Consider yourself no longer my 
daughter — you'll pack off — to the poor house before 
to-morrow morning. 

Jessie. — JSTow, my dear father 

Mr. Franks. — Dear granny ; hold your tongue, Miss ! 

Jessie. — Forgive me this one time, — Qjxdking to- 
wards him, with the palms of her hands together, and 
luhimpering,) — this one little time, and I'll never do it 
again T 

Mr. Franks. — If you dare come near me, I'll— I'll 
puli your nose ! 

Jess^■e.— Only this one little timQ.— {This is repeated, 
while Jessie approaches her father slowly, uniU she is 



7G GEORGE SEYMOUR. [aCT III. 

within a short distance, lohen, loith a sudden spring, she 
throws her arms around his neck, and kisses him.) 

Mr. Franks. — There^ now, run away with yourself. 
I forgive you. 

Jessie. — And you won't horsewhip me? 

3Jr. Franks. — 'No — no — there be off. 

Jessie. — l^or send me to the poor house ? 

Mr. Franks. — 'No, I tell you. 

Jessie. — In or pull my nose ? 

Mr. Franks. — No — unless you provoke mo to it by 
staying here any longer. 

Jessie. — Well, then, / forgive yoUj so there's another 
kiss for you. iFxit. 

Mr. Franks. — That's the way she always makes a 
fool of me. — She's the plague of my life. But come 
to my library. This Seymour, sir — we'll hang him 
high as Haman. 

Gerald. — Excuse me this morning. Mr. Crosbie 
was to meet me at my rooms at ten. I'll be with you 
this evening. In the mean time, what say you to 
Jessie and yourself dropping in at mother's, and pre- 
pare her for receiving the details of thi.s startling dis- 
closure? I'll meet you there as soon as Mr. Crosbie 
and myself hunt up this Seymour. 

Mr. Franks. — With all my heart. Although I am 
but a poor hand at such jobs, yet Jessie, bless the 
darling, can, and 'svill, do the thing up neatly. 

liJxeuent, 



SCENE v.] GEORGE SEYMOUR. 77 

**:". 

SCENE V . 

SITTING-ROOM — SEYMOUR'S HOUSE, BAGGOT STREET. 

[Seymour discovered seated at a Table.] 

Seymour. — {Rising.) — Thirty years ! Ah ! what a 
change ! Then, basking in the smiles of love's young 
dreams — -the future bright and glorious, with the sweet 
girl on whom I had lavished all the love of a heart 
free from guile, by my side, I slept on and dreamed. 
But, oh ! the waking from that dream ! A needy ad- 
venturer stepped in and robbed me of all — my love — 
my dream of happiness — my honor ! We met — upon 
the green sod I left my rival weltering in his own 
blood, to die — as I hoped — as I prayed ! But it was 
not to be! — he recovered! What was left me! No 
peace, but revenge ! No joys, but her tortures and 
her groans ! But her, Kate Eochefort ! Well do I 
remember her words — " I now despise you ! " Aye, 
then I cursed her, bidding her, when she was writhing 
beneath the power of the spirit she had despised, to 
remember, that the tortures she was enduring, were 
but the workings of my revenge ! I fled ! Seventeen 
long years I was a stranger to my home. I returned ! 
The princely estate of my rival vanished, and hailed 
me as it owner! He died, broken hearted they say! 
Jleve7ige_! The widow lived on in penury and wretch- 
edness, my hatred following her, step by step, until 
she confessed to me having used the wealth confided 
to her care, for the use of the orphan Emma. True, 
no other crime could be attached to that, than a sim- 
ple breach of trust. — ^Yet she knew it not. Her fears 
placed her still farther in my power ! Revenge ! 



78 GEORGE SEYMOUR. [ACT III. 

Gerald knew not the manner in which his mother had 
i*eceived her ward's fortunef and, when informed of the 
circumstances, took it for granted, that she had placed 
herself within the power of the law, and saw no way- 
tor her escape, but by replacing the money ere her 
w^ard reached majority. I had sworn vengeance 
against her and hers, and to reach Gerald most eftec- 
tively was through his love for Miss Franks. He is a 
noble boy, and is willing, to save his mother from 
harm, to sacrifice that love ! Were the motlier dead, 
I could forgive the son. Since Emma has been my 
companion, a gentler spirit has been awakened. She 
is the only being I have met, since I reached man's 
estate, who has touched my heart. She loves Gerald 
sincerely, and for her sake, I will pretend, when I meet 
him to-morrow night, that the reason for breaking 
oif the match, no longer exists, and will give. him the 
money required ; and, then, in the character of guard- 
ian to Emma, I will demand it from Mrs. Rochefort. 
Then, with my adopted daughter, I will bid farewell 
to Ireland forever. But I will see Mrs. Rochefort 
again, and probe that proud spirit of hers to the 
quick, \_Exit. 



SCENE VI.] " GEORGE SEYMOUR. TO 

.SCENE Y I . 

GERALD ROCHEFORT'S ROOM. 

Enter Gerald Rocheforf and Tom Croshie. 

Tom. — AYell, I do declare, Gerald, your history beats 
tlie Mysteries of Udolplio all hollow ! By the Lord ! 
this is the greatest day that ever came for old Ireland I 
Just oblige me with a loan of twenty or tliirty thou- 
sand pounds, will you ? It's a mere trifle to you, you 
know ! Why, man alive, Croesus was a beggar-man to 
you ! Stop a bit — there's a pack of fox-hounds for 
sale atDycer's to-morrow, and Frank Studdert's hunt- 
ing-stud is to be had for a song — I saw the most per- 
fect thing at Hutton's j^esterday, in the way of a light 
mail — there's a splendid 3'acht advertised in this morn- 
ing's '^ Saunder's " — the best grouse-mountain in the 
kingdom is to be let — the 

Gerald. — For God's sake, my dear Crosbie, be serious 
for a few minutes. I want your advice in this matter. 

Tom. — Oh! that's a different thing. Imagine your- 
self addressing Solomon — now for it. — (Seats hhiiself.) 

Gerald. — AVith this paper in my possession, I think 
I may boldly demand from Seymour the restitution of 
my father's property 

Tom. — Think ! what do 3'ou mean hj think ? Don't 
you know very well you may ? 

Gerald. — Yes; but he may deny the entire state- 
ment. 

Tom. — Plow the devil can he do that, when you 
have his own letters to Stevenson ? 

Gerald. — He may deny them also. 

Tom.. — Then, blow his brains out ! and^ indeed; un- 



80 GEORGE SEYMOUR. " [aCT III. 

der any circumstances, I don't see bow you can avoid 
that I 

Gerald. — Kevertheless, I most certainly will avoid 
it. The law shall deal with him. 

Tom. — Law be damned ! justice, sir, before law, any 
day — the scoundrel must he shot! 

Gerald. — JSTot by me, Tom; you may shoot him if 
you have any fancy for it, but 

Tom. — Don't say another word ! I'll pepper him — 
I'll do him the undeserved honor of sending a bullet 
through his kidney. He's a dead man before this time 
to-morrow. You must caxvj the challenge, Gerald, 
my boy ! — (Starts to prepare it.) 

Gerald. — (Laughiyig .) — Come, come, Crosbie, you 
must give up this blood-thirsty notion. 

Tom. — ril tell you what, there's no use in talking, 
but if you don't let me jpepper that infernal rascal, I'll 
never forgive 3^ou ! 

Gerald. — Well, we'll speak of that directly. But 
what had I better do first? 

Tom. — xifter all, I think the best thing you can do 
is to go straight to his house this moment, and, before 
he has time or opportunity to defend himself, accuse 
him boldly of the charges made against him in that 
confession of his unfortunate confederate. I can 
shoot him afterwards. 

Gerald. — I will take your advice. Will you come 
with me, Crosbie ? 

Tom. — ^Will I ? I wouldn't lose the meeting for a 
thousand pounds ! I told you we'd unkennel him — 
and now to be in at the death ! No fear we shall "miss 
our tip/^ my boy. .But don't you think that we might 
want Denny Conner in this affair ? 



BCENB VI.] GEORGE SEYMOUR. 81 

Enter Denny Conner. 

Denny. — An' av you want him, you have him. 
Spake of the divle, axin' yer pardon, gintlemen, for 
mentionin' the baste ! — (^Touching the brim of his hat.) 

Tom. — Why, Dinny, what brings you here ? 

Denny. — Faix, I'm takin' a walk. Sorro a ha'p'orth 
else. 

Tom. — 1 thought you went back to your worthy 
Master's when you left us this morning. 

Denny. — So I did, sir, but I knew he wouldn't be 
there afore night, so I just come to look at the ladies ! 

Tom. — Well, so much the better. We have found 
out the " ould Turk/^ as you call him, and are going 
to pay him a visit. 

Denny. — Oh, thunder-alive ! is it in airneat you are, 
Masther Tom ? downright airnest ? 

Tom. — Yes, come along. When we have holed tho 
fox, we may want you in at the death. 

Denny. — I'll tell you what it is, that ould thief in- 
sulted me, when he axed me to fi^;)j Masther Garald. 
You're a gintleman, Masther Crosbie, an' can undher- 
stand how a poor boy, without a fardin' in his pocket, 
or a skreed on his back, has his feelings as well as 
thim that rowl about in carri'ges — the ould naygur 
insulted me, I say, an' if it was for nothin' else than 
that, I'll have my revenge of him. — (^Dashes his hat 
on the floor.) 

Tom. — Well, Dinny, you rascal, I'll forgive you all 
the mischief you ever did, and all the lies you ever 
told, while you were my valet, for your conduct on 
this occasion. You^re not so great a scoundrel as I 
thought. 

Denny. — I'm no betther nor my neighbors — I'm no 
betther nor my neighbors, Masther Tom: but I'd 
k 



82 GEORGE SEYMOUR. [ACT III. 

scorn to be a spy. But stop, Masther Garald — since 
I left you this mornin' I've had my eye on the ould 
Turk ; an' I dogged him from Baggot strate till yer 
mother's door, where you'll find him now, I'm afther 
thinkin'. 

Gerald. — Indeed; then Tom, we've no time to lose. 

[Exeuent Gerald aiid Tom. 

Denny. — Hurroo! hurroo ! yer sowl ! — (Throws his 
hat up several times, kicking it as it falls.) — Hish ! tako 
that ! Bad loock to poverty ! Whoo yer sowl ! — 
(^DemolisJies his hat. — Starts for the door — suddenly stops 
and scratches his head in deep thought.) — Be the howly 
Saint Pathrick — I have it ! I'll to Baggot strate, an' 
tell the young lady there, that the ould haythen 
wants her till Misthress. Eochefort's; an' by the curse 
of Crummel, we'll smother the ould Turk wid the pre- 
sence of his frinds. 

[Exit singing and capering. 



fOENE VII.] GEORGE SEYMOUR. 8S 

SCENE VII. 
DRAWING EOOM — MRS. ROCHEFORT'S HOUSE. 

[Mrs. Rochefort discovered seated, gazing upon a Miniature.] 

Enter George Seymoitr. 

Mrs. B. — {Looking up.) — Again, sir ! have you dared 
■{Eisi7ig.) 



Seymour. — Aye, Madam, I have dared more than 
this. Eemember ! 

3Irs. ii^.— Would to God that I could forget! Why 
have you come here now ? 

Seymour. — To bring you news ! 

Mrs. R. — ^News ! — what news have you brought me? 
You were ever the bearer of evil tidings. 

Seymour. — And am now — and ever shall be to you 
and yours. Have you felt my power yet, Madam ? 

Mrs. JR. — Oh, I have ! I have ! but spare me now. 
— {Sinking hack into her seat.) 

Seymour. — ^or now, nor never ! You shall feel it 
to the last! 

Mrs. R. — Speak, then, at once ! Let me hear the 
worst ! I can bear anj. thing now ! What new evil 
has your malice in store for me ? 

Seymour. — As I have been a vulture to thy heart, 
so will I be a raven to thy ear. Thy son 

Mrs. R. — {Springing from her seat and grasping Sey- 
mour's arm.) — Gerald ! What of him ? Speak ! 

Seymour. — Your son, Madam, knows all j^our crimes, 
and has consented to break off his marriage with Miss 
Franks, to save his mother from dying in prison, on 
condition I loan him the required amount, to make 



M ©EORGE SEYMOUR, [AOT HI. 

good to Mis8 Aubyn, the fortune left her, and which 
you so basely squandered. 

M?'S. R. — Oh, God ! comfort my noble boy ! Begone, 
Bir ! M}^ son would, were he here, chastise the coward 

Enter Mr. Franks and Jessie. 

who thus dares insult his unprotected mother, fallen 
though she be. Eeware, George Seymour ! In this 
you have gone beyond forbearance — the worm will 
at last turn and sting the heel which is crushing it to 
the earth ! Your pa.rt in this transaction shall now 
be made known to Gerald. Would he were here to 
sweep the reptile from my sight. 

Seymour. — Ha! ha! ha! Comes it then to this? 
Know then, woman I thy wrath and thy scorn falls 
harmless at my feet. Both thou and thy boy, ere 
to-morrow's sun, shall breathe the foul air within a 
prison's walls. 

Mr. Franks. — Seymour ! Seymour ! Ah ! the very 
man Gerald and Mr. Crosbie have gone to chastise — 
the villain ! What I have witnessed since I came 
here, would have convinced me, that you could have 
been no other than George Seymour, without having 
heard the name. Jessie, hold my hat and coat, while 
I show this jackanapes, that he is not to insult a wo- 
man in my presence, without meeting his just deserts. 
Watch him, Jessie, and don^t let him escape by the 
door, while I am rolling up my sleeves. 

Enter Gerald Rochefort arid Tovi Crosbie. 

Gerald. — Hold, Mr. Franks ; let me relieve you of 
this disagreeable job. Attend to the ladies. 

Seymour. — May I ask to whom I am indebted for 
this interference? 



•CINB VII.] GEORGE SEYMOUR. 85 

Gerald. — It is an idle question, sir: the pretext of 
ignorance will avail but little. You have not now to 
learn who I am. 

Tom. — And ap; to me, if you have any particular 
anxiety to kuow my name, you will find it there. — 
(^Throws his card on table.) 

Seymour. — What is the meaning of this outrage ? 
You are both strangers to me. 

Gerald. — It is a ftilsehood ! and, in order to spare you 
the degredation of uttering such another, permit me 
to inform you, at once, that I am acquainted with the 
entire of your villany, from beginning to end. 

Seymour. — {Passing his hand rapidly across his fore- 
head.) — You force me, sir, to leave you. 

Gerald. — By Heavens ! this is more than I can bear. 
Look you, for the sake of my father's memory, I 
would spare you public disgrace if possible; but, so 
help me Heaven ! if you carry on this farce one in- 
stant longer, 1 will denounce you to the world for the 
villain that you are ! I knoio you, sir, — you would 
have ruined me, as you have done my parents. Even 
now, I should have been your victim, but that the 
hand of Providence placed the means of escape within 
my reach. You are at this moment in my power, so 
that, by a word, I can crush you to the lowest depths 
of disgrace and infamy ; but it rests with yourself 

whether that word shall be spoken 

Seymour. — {In a low voice.) — What is all this? 
Why are you here ? 

Gerald. — {With gentleness.) — Mr. Seymour, I will 
explain in a few words why I am here. Since the 
night when I made an application to you, supposing 
the character you then assumed, to be your real one, I 
have discovered many secrets of your life. When I 
tell you that the greater part of them have been made 



86 GEORGE SEYMOUR. [ACT III. 

known to me through Walter Stevenson, I presume, 
it is unnecessary to add, that I am aware of tlie means 
by which my poor father's ruin was affected. 

Seymour. — Ah! Hell and damnation! foiled! Foil- 
ed at the very moment of triumph, and that, too, by 
the death-bed repentance of the tool I fostered for its 
accompHshment. Death to my dreams of revenge! 
Aye, and death to thee, who would thus triumph in 
my fall. — {Attempts to stab Gerald, hut is prevented by 
Crosbie, tvho hurls Seymour to the floor, stunning him by 
the fall.) 

Ejiter Emma Aicbyn, folloioed by Denny Conner. 

Emyna Aubyn. — What means this ? {Seeing Mrs. B.) 
Oh, mother, tell me quickly, why this scene ? 

Mrs. R. — {Embracing Emma.) — It means, my love, 
that an all-seeing Providence has laid bare the devilish 
deeds of that m'an, — {points to Seymour,) — who, in re- 
venge, attempted but now the death of my noble boy. 

Emma Aubyn. — What ! the death of dear Gerald, and 
by my guardian, too ? 

Mrs. R. — Guardian ! No guardian, but a base plot- 
ter to mar the happiness of others, and riot in their 
misery. In my youth, that man was a woer for my 
heart and hand. For his fierce and ungovernable 
passions, his suit was rejected. For that act, no means 
has he left untried, to wreak his vengeance on me and 
mine. My husband — my fortune, — both have felt his 
power, — my fortunes fled — my husband lies in his 
grave, the victim of this fiend, and of a broken heart. 
M}^ own existence has been made miserable by his 
helhsh arts. At last, to secure his silence, in a mo- 
ment of anguish, I confessed I had used the fortune 
committed, with you, to my care. From that day to 



SCENE VII.] GEORGE SEYMOUR. 87 

this, not a moment's peace have 1 known. To aid 
him in his designs to get you in his power, as a farther 
act of vengeance on me, he extorted Irom my fears, 
an acknowledgment of his false pretensions to your 
guardianship. You listened to his words, and left me. 
My boy's happiness has not escaped his machinations; 
and but now he sought his life. 

Emma Auhyn. — My God ! this is terrible ! 'Tis true^ 
he did persuade me, as my guardian, to flee your house, 
and dwell with him as his adopted daughter, but not 
until he had rung my heart with the wrongs he 
made me believe I had sufl'ered at your hands. This 
story of his guardianship being false, oh, what cre- 
dence can I now give to the rest ? Oh, my God ! sup- 
port me, in this, my hour of misery. — i^Falls into Mrs. 
B.'s arms iveejnng.) 

{During this scene Seymour revives, and is aided to his 
feet by Gerald and Denny.) 

Seymour. — Emma here ! Ah ! then all is lost ! Oh I 
Vengeance, I have followed thee too far, and to re- 
ceive me hell blows all her fires ! Caught ! caught in 
my own snare ! Betrayed by my own instrument ! 
This comes of human weakness. Had I strangled 
the tool, when his services were no longer needed, my 
amour would have been proof — proof! 'Tis hard to 
die, with health beating in every pulse, the powers of 
enjoyment unpalsied, the means of gratifying them 
in my grasp ! Courage ! courage I Better death than 
the idle gaze of the curious, or th© pity of unrelenting 
foes. Eevenge ! stand firm, and interrupt his wishes ! 
Revenge ! on whom ? — no matter — earth and Heaven 
would blush, should I forbear ! Now ! — (^Stabs himself 
—falls — partially raising himself) — Come hither, Em- 



88 GEORGE SEYMOUR. [aCT HI. 

ma, let me hear thy pardon ere I bid farewell to earth. 
— {Eyiima kneels — supports his head) Child, I meant 
thee no harm, but aimed to do thee good. Gerald, be 
kind to poor Emma. Love, fare thee well ! — {Dies.) 



THE END. 



BOOK OF CHROMCLES! 

BEING A FAITHFUL AND TRUE HISTORY OF THE 
DISSENSIONS AMONG THF. 

F KNOX, 

UPON THE 

KANSAS QUESTION I 

TO WHICH IS ADDED 

THE CALLS FOB THE LECOMPTON Al^D 
THE ANTI-LECOMPTON MEETINGS. 

WRITTEN BY 




OF THE 




MT. VERNON, OHIO: 

PRINTED AT THE NATIONAL BOOK AND JOB OFFICE 
1S5S.. 



'f!'-^^'' P 



THE BOOK OF CHRONICLES. 

^ mm ^ 

CHAPTEK I. 



N the first year of the reason of his having with- 

reign of James the Se- stood the allurements of tha 

cond, called by his fairest portion of the land, 
friends "Old Buck," by 




2. A great commotion 
arose in the laud of Kansas, 
which spread throughout the 
length and breadth of the 
land of America, reaching 
even unto the land, of Knox. 

3. And James the Second 
sent to the land of Kansas, 
one of his Chieftains named 
Lecompton, to subdue and 
rale over the turbulent spir- 
its; of that robelliou'- land. 

4. Rut \hc v^'rath of thr 



people thereof waxed hot, 
and they arose, to a man, 
and would not have this man 
Lecompton as their ruler. 

5. And James the Second 
was sorely troubled, and he 
issued his co)nmands to the 
people throughout the land, 
to receive this man Lecomp- 
ton, and to fall down and 
vv-orship him. 

H. But a gondh- portion 

of thn par.pl ♦> of fhc IftnH of 



THE BOOK OF CHRONICLES. 



America, under the lead of 
Stephen, the -'Little G-iant," 
rebelled against this com- 
mand. 

7. And the wrath of James 
the Second waxed hot, and 
he swore in his anger, that 
his commands should be obc}-- 
ed, and that all the people 
who would not swear allegi- 
ance to this man Lecompton 
should lose their heads. 

8. Xow, when this com- 
mand reached the land of 
Knox, the Chieftains thereof 
trembled in their boots. 

9. And word was sent to 
the Chieftains, to assemble 
themselves together, to coun- 
sel one with the other. 

10. And when the Chief- 
tains assembled themselves 
together, Edward the Wit- 
less, Eli the Miller, John the 
Chief Consul, Matthew the 
Irritable, Samuel the Israel- 
ite, Samuel the Expectant, 
whose sir name is Axtell, Wil- 
liam the would-be Congress- 
man, and William the Beam- 
ite, declared valiantly for the 
cause of James the Second, 
and his great Chieftain Le- 
compton. 

11. But William the Gas- 
tonite, Jacob, of the house of 
Ly Brand, Jacob the Bank- 
er, Charles the Scribner, Ka- 
guet the Spouter, James the 
Keeper of the Iron Horse, 
Zimmerman, the Deposed, 
uaac, of the tribo of Hodley. 



Robert the Irvinite, and Har- 
vey, who had diligently 
sought to count the treasures 
of tlie people, manfully step- 

^ ped forth into the ranks of 

' the Little G-iant. 

12. But William, the 
Master of the Posts, bowed 
his knee, and kissed the toe 
of the great Lecompton, fear- 
ing, peradventure, the wral^ 
of the King. 

13. And Lecky the Ha#'- 
per, being afraid of the wrath 
both of the Little Giant and 
of the King, fled, and hid 
himself within his Castle, and 
placed a strong guard of horse 
shoes round and about him. 

14. At this the wrath of 
Eli the Miller, waxed exceed- 
ingly hot; fi'om his nostrils 
came forth steam as from a 
furnace heated seven times 
hotter than the fiery pit ; his 
eyes shone like two balls of 
living fire ; his tongue be- 
came swollen with the venom 
of his heart, and his mouth 
belched forth words of bitter- 
ness and of gall. 

15. So great was his wrath 
that his leg;s tottered, and he 
fell to the ground as dead. 

16. And great was the 
commotion thereat, and Hen- 
ry, of the house of Banning, 
brought forth water, and, 
casting it upon the face of 
the prostrate Chieftain, he 
revived. 



THE BOOK OF CHR0NICLE8. 




17. Among the Chieftains 
of the land of Knox, were 
Baldwin the Renegade, and 
John the Know Nothing, 
whose record caused the 
friends of the King to look 
upon them with distrust. 

18. The taint of Aboli- 
tion smelt strong upon the 
garments of Baldwin ; yea, 
stronger than the stones of 
the land of Danville; and 
from the hair of John creep- 
eth forth the filth of the 
Know Nothing dens. 



19. Now, these thing& 
stank in the nostrils of the 
friends of the King, and 
causeth their stomachs to 
turn against them. 

20. And Baldwin the- 
Kenegade, and John the 
Know Nothing, reasoned one 
with the other, and came and 
bowed themselves down at 
the feet of Lecompton, swear- 
ing fealty for the future, re- 
ceiving the brand of infamy 
for the past. 



CHAPTER II. 



A 



^HERE dwelleth in a 
small village called 

ir Squealtown, in the 
.aTg^ land of Knox, one 
^^^ Joseph, of the house 
of An Keny, a Chieftain 
mighty in his way. 

2. Now, this Chieftain 
sorely troubled both the 
friends of the King, and of 



the Little Giant, for he vain- 
ly attempted to do battle both 
in the cause of the King and 
likewise of the Little Giant. 
3. And when the friends 
of the Little Giant issued 
their commands to the peo- 
ple of the land of Knox, to 
assemble them.^eives together 
at th.e Castle in ibe CUv of 







THK nOOK OF CHRONICLES. 



Vernon, on the sixth day of 
the month of March, in the 
second year of the reign of 
James the Second, Joseph 
caused his name to be attach- 
ed thereto, and great was the 
dismay of the friends of the 
King, for they looked not for 
this desertion on the part of 
one whose antecedents led 
them to look for better things. 

4. At the grief of the 
friends of the King, the heart 
of Joseph softened, and he 
cast about striving to re- 
trieve himself from the odium 
his course had brought upon 
him, and to cause the face of 
the King to smile as of old. 

6. Now, it appears, this 
act of rebellion upon the part 
of Joseph, was caused by hia 



listening to the pleadings of 
James, the Keeper of the 
Iron Horse, a favorite Chief 
of the Little Giant. 

6. And, to make James 
the Scapegoat, to bear to the 
mountains, the burden of his 
sins, Joseph, through the 
columns of the Banner, de- 
nounced him as the betrayer 
of his unsophisticated inno- 
cence, and the cause of hia 
making the face of the King 
to clothe itself in the habili- 
ments of sadness. 

7. And smiles of joy illu- 
minated the face of the King, 
and Joseph was received a- 
gain into favor, while James 
was cast out, as utterly un- 
worthj"^ of a place in the af- 
fections of the King. 



CHAPTER III. 




MONG the Chieftains 
friendly to the cause 
of the King, was one 
Absalom the Thrift- 
ful, who dwelleth in 

the City of Frederick, in the 

land of Wayne. 

2. In times past, the peo- 
ple of the land of Knox hon- 
ored him greatly, and confi- 
ded to his care the safe keep- 
ing of the malefactors and 
the unruly people of the land: 

3. In the discharge of the 
duties appertaining to hi.s 
post Af ini>i1, \\{\ crrfflllv pl«^n.M- 



ed his friends, so much so, 
indeed, that he retired from 
office with little or no opposi- 
tion. 

4. Now, when the friends 
of the Little Giant declared 
against the King and his 
Chieftain Lecompton, Absa- 
lom took his place in the 
ranks under the King, having 
in his eye the post he former- 
ly held, and he battled dili- 
gently in the cause of his 
Master. 

5. And the praise of his 
rnifjhtv de^^-d'* wi^re on thr 



THK BOOK OF CHRONICLES. 



tcnguea of all the faithful : 

6. And the fame thereof 
reached even unto the ears of 
the Law-makers who assem- 
bled themselves together in 
the City of Columbus, to de- 
vise ways and means to pre- 
vent the Treasury of the State 
from becoming too greatly 
burdened with the issue of 
banks, and of the coinage of 
iilver and of gold. 

7. And the Law-makerg 
ijuued their mandate to the 



people of the land of Knox, 
not to interfere with nor mo- 
lest the great Black Kepubli- 
can Chieftain, Underwood, 
until the year one thousand 
eight hundred and sixty, and 
the first day of the month of 
January thereof. 

8. Now, this mandate of 
the Law-makers, troubleth 
Absalom sorely, for, from his 
long fast, he hath become an 
hungered, and longeth for a 
suck at the public teat. 



CHAPTER IV 




MONG the Chieftains 
of the land of Knox, 
whose names were 
not placed on record 
_ _ in tne first Chapter, 
were Montgomery the Sheriff 
and Cotton the Scattering 
Candidate. 

2. Now, both these Chief- 
tains were mighty in their 
■wav, and had aided power- 
fully in placing the King up- 
on the throne. 

3. In the first year of the 
reign of James the Second, 
Montgomery the Sheriff, 
journeyed unto the land of 
Kansas, and dwelt therein. 

4. And on his return to 
the land of Knox he manful- 
ly stepped forth, and declared 
for the cause of the sover- 
eignty of the people, and 



joined the forces under the 
Little Giant. 

5. But the Chieftain Cot- 
ton, who was a mighty Nim- 
rod, in hunting after places 
in the gift of the people, vi- 
brated like unto a pendulum 
between the forces under the 
King, and the forces under 
the Little Giant, fearing, per- 
adventure, lest he strike on 
the weaker side. 

6. Knowing this hanker 
ing after places of power, by 
the Scattering Chieftain, 

7. The friends of the King, 
in the First Ward of the City 
of Vernon, agreed one with 
the other, 

8. That if he would de- 
clare for the King, and go 
against the impounding of 
swine found running at large, 



THt: BOOK OF CHRONICLES. 



they would give him the seat 
with the City Fathers, then 
occupied by the great Black 
Republican Hauk. 

9. And thereupon Cotton, 



the Scattering Candidate, 
stepped forth, and enrolled 
his name with the follow^ers 
of the King;. 



CHAPTER V. 




^OREMOST among those 
who declared for the 
King, and against the 
cause of th.e people, 
_^ stood the great Chief- 
tain Young, whose Castle is 
reared among the hills in the 
land of Monroe. 

2. In all the land there 
are none more ready to do 
:unto the King homage than 
the Crippled Chieftain. 

8. "When the knees of the 
hitherto undaunted followers 
.of the King became helpless 



flmf gfegpq ii c 



^hau r^ 



as the limbs of sucklings, 
through the great fear that 
was upon them, this Chief- 
tain stood forth dauntless, as 
though cased in armor, and 
the echo of his war cry rang 
throughout the land. 

4. On the fifth day of the 
month of April in the second 
year of the reign of James 
the Second, the famous battle 
of Monroe was fought^, be- 
tween the followers of^' tiie 
King, under the lea(Ji#3ltp 
af the Chieftain Young, and 










TKE BOOK OF CHRONICLER. 



H 



the forces of tlie gallant 
Black Kepublicaiis, who so 
numerously infest the lulls 
and the valleys of that dark 
and benighted hind. 

5. A battle so sang-uinav}' 
in its results that the Ciironi- 
eles of histoiy, sacred or pro- 
fane, containeth not its equal. 

6. To its glories, the 
strings of the lyre of Lecky 
the Harper awoke, and the 
fame thereof sounded sweetly 
in the ears of the King, and 
his followers became merry 
as though gladdened with the 
.spirit of new made wine : 

7. And it Mas likened un- 
to the ennfiict upori tht.' |)laiTi.s 



of Salamis,Plate:i, ]Vlarathor^,' 
Tliermon3'la?,Waterloo, But - 
ker Hill, Yorktown, New 
Orleans, Buena Yista, PalO 
Alto, ii^id one hundred otirei's, 
inconvenient for the Harper 
to attune his lyre to the glo- 
ries thereof. 

8. Xow, although the for- 
ces of the Black Republicans 
were defeated, 3'et they are 
not dismayed at the war cry 
of the Chieftain Young, nor 
the lyric of the Harper, but 
they withdrew from the well- 
contested Held, bearing with 
them twenty niore of their 
foes than at a former battle. - 



(" HAPT?iR VI. 



OIIX the Chief Consul, 

!• journej-ed unto the 

Castle of the King, in 

.^,^ the land of Washing- 



U>i\, r.H-iuiUg uiito liim llie 
allegiance of his friends, 
and the defiance of the rebel- 
lauts. 




10 



THE BOOK OF CHRONICLES. 



2. When the King heard 
these tidings of the rehellion 
ill the land of Knox, he bow- 
ed his head and wept : 

3. And he swore in his 
wrath, the rebellious Chief- 
tains must be subdued and 
return to their loyalty, or 
John the Consul should not 
see the land of France. 

4. And John the Consul 
stood amazed, for he looked 
not for this treatment from the 
hands of the King, to whom 
he sold his integrity. 

5. And he returned to the 
land of Knox, sorrowing, for 
his heart was set on a journey 
to the land of France. 

6. And word was sent to 
the Chieftains of the land of 
Knox to assemble themselves 
together, and take steps to 
appease the wrath of the 
King; 

7. And the Chieftains as- 
sembled themselves togeth- 
er, and hearkened unto the 
commands of the King, and 
reasoned one with the other, 
and those who had declared 
for the Little Giant, as with 
one voice, refused to recede 
from the stand they had ta- 
ken at their former counsel. 

8. And the Chieftains who 
had knelt at the feet of 
the King, and taken the 
Chieftain Lecompton to rule 
over them, 

9. Issued a call to the 
people of the land of Knox 



who were friendly to the 
cause of the King, and who 
were willing to take the Chief 
Lecompton to rule over them, 

10. To assemble themselves 
together at the Castle in the 
City of Yernon, in the land 
of Knox, on the fifteenth day 
of the month of March, in 
the second j^ear of the reign 
of James the Second, 

11. And to sweep from off 
the face of the earth, all those 
dilapidated Chieftains who 
had declared against the rule 
of the Lecompton Chieftain, 
and who hath watered in the 
face of the King. 

12. Perad venture, lest the 
Chieftains, who were friendly 
to the cause of the King, 
should prejudice the minds 
of the people of the land of 
Knox against those who had 
rebelled against the rule of 
the Chieftain Lecompton, ■ 

13. Another call was is- 
sued, commanding tlie people 
of the land of Knox to as- 
semble themselves together 
at the Castle in the City of 
Vernon, 

14. On the sixth day of 
the month of March, in the 
second year of the reign of 
James the Second, 

15. To hearken unto the 
reasons which had caused 
them to join the forces under 
the Little Giant, and to array 
themselves against the King. 

16. And the "noise and 



THE BOOK OF CHRONICLES. 



11 



confusion," created by their 
proceedings, penetrated the 
wails of the Castle of Lecky 
the Harper, 

17. Causing him to moan 
and writhe in agony, for, in 
the triumph of either the 
King, or the Little Giant 
in the land of Knox, the 
"bread and butter" of his 
existence would fall to the 
ground. 

18. And Lecky the Har- 
per issued forth from his 
stronghold, 

19. And for the space of 
six days flew, like a bird of 
passage, from one contending 
force to the other, 

20. Praying with the one, 
and counselling with the oth- 
er, to withdraw their sum- 
mons to the people, 

21. ' 
and command the people of 
the land of Knox to gather 
themselves together in one 
assembly, and 

22. * To express themselves 
for or against this Lecomp- 
ton Chieftain, and to swear 
fealty to the King, or to join 
the forces under the Little 
Giant, as the voice of the ma- 
jority might declare. 

23 And the Chieftains 
who had rebelled against the 



And unite together 



King, confident in their 
strength, and firm in the in- 
tegrity of their purposes, 

24. Listened to the songs 
of the Harper, and pledged 
themselves one with the oth- 
er to withdraw their summons 
to the people, and submit to 
the voice of a majority there- 
of. 

25. But the Chieftains 
who had resolved to stand by 
the King, hearkened not un- 
to the songs of the Harper, 
and grew exceedingly wrathy 
at the pusillanimity of the 
Chieftain of Horse Shoe 
Bend, who was too fearful to 
declare for or against the 
King, and drove him forth 
from among them, and he 
took refuge within the walls 
of his stronghold. 

26. And he called around 
him the spirits of the mighty 
dead, and for the space of 
fifteen days he dwelt in the 
presence of those who had 
arisen from their graves. 

27. And throughout his 
Castle resounded the rappings 
of the departed, and so great 
was the noise thereof, his 
Castle was shunned by the 
people as a place wherein 
dwelleth the ungodly. 



iz 



THE BOOK or ,(.'HHOMCLE«. 



CHAl^TEE YTI 



>i the sixth day of the 
month of March, in 
the second year of the 
j^blCn rfeign of ■ James the 
'i^C^ Second, the people of 
the h\nd of Knox nssenibled 
themselves to'gether at the 
Castle, in the Citj^ of A''ernon. 

2. And they came from 
the valleys, and from the hiil 
tops, and from the extreme 
corners of the land, to the 
number of four*hundred and 
three score and ten. 

3. And they camo in so- 
berness, for they were of that 
class who loved to reason to- 
gether, and to hearken unto 
the words of v/isdom. 

4. And McWiliiams, of 
the Itind of Clay, Ayjis clioseu 
to preside over them, and Ja- 
cob the Banker selected :is 
Scribe. 

5. l\ow, among' the Chief- 
tains in the land of Ohio, who 
iiad rebelled acjainst the 
King, and refused to kneel to 
The cap of the great Lecomp-- 
ton, were Henry the Painful, 
of the land of Cuyahoga, 
and Daniel of Toledo, in the 
land of Frogs. 

' G. Now these Chieftains 
once stood high in the favor 
of the King, and had receiv- 
ed many tokens of esteem 
.'Vom his ha7ids 



7. But when the King 
comnumded his followers to 
fall down and worship the 
cap of the great Lecompton, 
they rebelled, and joined the 
forces under the Little Giant, 
and they stood forth read}^ to 
do battle manfully for the 
cause they had espoused. 

8. And they journeyed 
from their homes in the land 
of Cuyahoga and in the land 
of Frogs, and pitched their 
tents in the land of Knox. 

0. And in tiie words of 
truth tlie}' spake unto the 
people, of the wrongs and in- 
iquities attempted to be por- 
petratr-d upon the ])eople of 
the land of Kansiis, by the 
King, and by the Chieftain 
Lecom}>ton, sent to rule over 
theuL. 

10. And the people ot*the 
land of Knox hearkenea un- 
to their words, and arose to 
a*ian, and said: 

11. •• This mighty evil shall 
not be, and they swore ie 
their wrath that they would 
not have this man Lecomp- 
ton. as their ruler. 

12. ATn<^ng the Chieftains 
of the land of Knox, who 
had rebelled against the 
King, was "William the Gas- 
fonite, 

1.'> Whom ihe Kinti: nnd 



Tin: BOOK Oi' CUKONTCLES. 



l:i 



his Chieftains hud brouiiht 
Irom the \i\nd of Jefierson, 
to do battle in his cuupo, und 
to rescue the hind of Knox 
from the hands of a might^y 
people called Black liepubli- 
caiis. 

14. And the Leoom])tt>n 
Chieftains were incensed at 
his rebellion, and they swore 
in their wrath, that he sliould 
not dwell in their midst, for 
they were fearful the people 
would hearken unto his voice. 

15. And AVilliam the Gas- 
tonite also spake unto the 
people, of the frauds and in- 
iquities attempted to be for- 
ced U])on the people of the 
land of Kansas by the King, 

If). And the people assem- 
bled were amazed at his w^ords 
of truth, and they girded on 
their swords anew, resolved 
to conquer or die in th(,' cause 
of justice and truth. 



17. Now, when tlie Le- 
compton Chieftains heard 
th(>so resolves of an incensed 
l)eople, they were as dumb- 
founded, and they reeled 
through the streets as swine 
afllicted with the kidney 
worm. 

IS. And for the space of 
three daj-s they remained 
within their Castles, fearing, 
peradventvu-e, lest Steele, the 
Marshal, should impound 
them under the provisions t f 
the ordinance restraining sick 
swine from running at large. 

19. And Matthew the Ir- 
ritable journeyed throughout 
the land of Ohio, in search 
of Chieftains friendly to the 
cause of the King, and wdio 
w'cre in possession of the gift 
of gab, to speak unto the 
pG0}>le on the fifteenth day of 
t!ie month of ^larcli. 



CHAPTKIl AlII. 



.N tlie morning of the 
fifteenth day of the 
month of March, in 
^^]S the second year of the 
^i^(^ reign of James the 
Second., God caused the rain 
of heaven to descend upon 
the earth, and the great 
thoroughfares leading to the 
City of Ternon, by reason 
thereof, became almost ini- 
])nssable. 



2. So liuicli so, indeed, 
that but few of the people of 
the land of Knox ventured 
forth froyi their hearthstones. 

3. But those who loved 
the spirits, both of the de- 
parted, and c>f corn, came 
forth in their strength, and 
made the streets of the City 
to resound with the discord 
of babbling tongues and of 
rampant passions. 



14 



THE BOOK OF CHRONICLES. 



4. The number thereof 
were computed by those skill- 
fal in the science of figures, 
to have reached three hun- 
dred and two score and five. 

5. And Lecky the Har- 
per issued forth from his Cas- 
tle, and appeared in their 
midst, vociferating' with a 
loud voice and wild mein : 

6. Long live the King 
and his great Chief Lecomp- 
ton! 

7. And the people were 
•amazed at his words, and 
exclaimed : 

8. Cast this man forth 
from among us, for by his 
teachings, have we not lost 
the spoils of office, and has 
not the cause of the Black 
liepublicans triumphed to 
the utter destruction of the 
cause of the King in the land 
of Knox? 

9. And Lecky the Har- 
per bowed his head and wept, 
and, with a pitiful voice, he 
cried : 

10. Cast me not forth to 
the tender mercies of mine 
enemies, for the Black Ee- 
publicans will have me not, 
nor will the Yellow Kepub- 
licans fellowship with me, 
and if ye cast me forth with 
the brand of infamy on my 
brow, " where shall I go?" 

11. And the hearts of the 
King's friends softened, and 
they said, with a Toice of 
distrust : 



12. Since we brought ye 
from the land of Pennsylva- 
nia, on probation, ye may 
tarry with us for the space of 
one year longer, for in that 
time ye will have performed 
your mission, the utter de- 
struction of the cause of the 
King in the land of Knox, as 
has come to pass in every 
land where ye have pitched 
your tent. 

13. Now, when the people 
had assembled themselves to- 
gether in the Castle, they 
chose from amongst the Chiefs 
John the Consul, to preside 
over them, and installed as 
Scribe, Baldwin the Rene- 
gade. 

14. Among the Chiefs who 
came from afar, were Samuel 
the "War Horse, William the 
Bologna Sausage Chief, Bel- 
den the Chief Prosecutor, 
Safford the Senator, Prentiss 
the Chief Spy, and Mat the 
Martin, a Stipendary in the 
Treasury Department in the 
land of Washington. 

15. Now, all these Chief- 
tains, excepting Safford the 
Senator, were in the pay of 
the King, and the people 
marvelled greatly amongst 
themselves, why they deserted 
their posts to travel unto a 
far land to speak unto them. 

16. And the people mur- 
mured one to the other, say- 
ing: 

17. In the days of good 



THE BOOK OF CHRONICLES. 



15 



old King Hickory, these 
things would not have come 
to pass, for the good old King 
would have sworn in his 
wrath, "By the Eternal! the 
man who leaves his post shall 
die ! " 

18. And when the people 
had ceased their murmuring, 
Matthew the Irritable came 
forth smiling, and said : 

19. Behold ! I present to 
you the great Chief, Belden 
the Prosecutor, who hath 
been swiftly converted from 
his heresies, and from follow- 
ing of the Little Giant, by a 
small parchment, with the 
King's name thereunto at- 
tached, making him the 
King's Attorney over the 
people of the land of North- 
ern Ohio. 

20. And the Chief Prose- 
cutor pat forth his hand and 
commanded silence, for the 
people murmured one with 
the other, saving : 

21. Why should the King 
go forth into the ranks of his 
enemies, and buy, with the 
gold of office,his Chief Speak- 
ers ? Have we none faithful 
to the cause of the King 
among us ? 

22. And when silence pre- 
vailed, the Chief Prosecutor 
spake unto the people, say- 
ing: 

23. In times gone by he 
spake unto a great people 
called by t^-o names — the 



people Democratic, and the 
people Black Eepublican, but 
now I find three : by what 
name shall this third people 
be called ? 

24. And Matthew the Ir- 
ritable cried with a voice of 
anguish, for the divisions 
among the people Democratic 
vexed him sorely : 

25. Call them the "Di- 
lapidated Democrats!" and 
thereat the face of John the 
Consul was seen to smile, for 
the name suited him to a T I 

26. Then the Chief Prose- 
cutor shook his curly locks, 
and wiped his flattened nose, 
and said : 

27. No ! the name sounds 
stale — call this third peo- 
ple "Yellow Eepublicans!" 
it suits my complexion best I 

28. Again came forth 
Matthew the Irritable, lead- 
ing Samuel the War Horse, 
saying : 




29. Hearken unto my 
voice, ye people of the land 
of Knox, and give heed unto 
my words, that ye may learn 
wisdom. 

30. This is the mighty Old 
War Horse, the fame of 
whose ravages hath reached 
even unto the remote?t cor^ 



6 



THE EOOK OF CHRONICLES. 



ners of the land of America. 
81. So terrible were his 
dopredntions in tlie land of 
Ohio, that the people thereof 
beseiged the Castle of the 
King, and sutrered him not 
to rest in peace, until he f^ave 
heed unto their com pi a i Tits. 



32. And the King com- 
manded his head groomsmai 
to journey with the Old War 
Horse unto the green pasture;, 
of the land of Minnesota, 
and to east him loose amoni* 
the Half Breeds of that land. 




33. And tin; head groom.-- 
naan and the Old War Horse 
journeyed unto the land of 
Alinnesota, and the head 
groomsman, by command of 
the King, made the Old "War 
Horse Governor over tlio 
Half Breeds of that land. 

34. And in the short space 
of six months thereafter, the 
Half Breeds of the land of 
Minnesota, assembled them- 
felve.g together, and, forming 
for themselves a Constitution, 
beleaguered the doors of Con- 
gres.s for jjdmission into the 
I'nion fir, a Hover<'-ign State, 



.<() di'vastating l]ad been thii 
depredations of the Old V>'ar 
Horse. 

35. And tlio King tooic 
rompassion upon the Half 
Breeds of the land of ]Minne- 
.-ota, a?id gave unto tlie Old 
War Horse six thousand 
ilollars worth of oats in tbe 
City of Columbus, in the 
land of Ohio, fearing, per- 
adventure, le^^t the heels of 
the Old War Horse should 
be found kicking against the 
throne ofthe King, with the 
determination to aeeomplisb 
the d<\<:truetjnn tboroof. 



I'HE JiOOK OF CIIRONICLIiS. 



1 



3o. And the people oftlie 
land of Knox wondered one 
with the oilier, sayinj^-: 

V>7. What hath this Pedi- 
gree of the Old War Horse 
to do Avith the direful divi- 
sions among the people De- 
mocratic in the land of Am- 
erica, as to the ruling of the 
Lecompton, Chieftain. 

38. Again came forth 
Matthew the Irritable, and, 
in a voice like unto the bark- 
ing of a do<r, cried : 

39. BelK.ld the great Bo- 
logna Sausage Chief, William 
the Sawyer, of the region of 
Hoop-poles, in the land of 
Auglaize. 

40. The fame of whose 
deeds, while in the councils 
of the nation, are yet odorif- 
erous in the land of Colum- 
bia, for great was the havoc 
among the canines of the 
land, and the- matrons 
mourned for their first born, 
and refused to be comforted, 
for the}' were not. 

41 . And the people of the 
bind of Columbia rebelled, 
for their goods were exposed 
to the midnight plunderer, 
for so destructive was the 
war of the butcher, that not 
a guardian dog wa-^ spared ;i> 

C 



a momunent lo the .•satiated 
stomach of the Bologna Chief. 

42. And the people drove 
him forth from among them, 
and he became a wanderer in 
the land of his brethren. 

43. And his fame follow- 
ed him Avhichsoever way he 
went ; and even noM% al- 
though liis teeth have be- 
came like snags, tlie dogs are 

^earful of showing their fa- 
ces within three score and 
ten miles of his whereabouts, 
lest, peradventure, they go 
the vray of their departed 
brethren. 

44. Then the jicople of 
the land of Knox, who were 
assembled in the Castle, arose 
if> their feet in disgust, and 
departed for their homes, 

45. For they came not 
together to hearken unto the 
depredations of the Old War 
Horse, and to the glutton- 
ous exploits of the Bologna 
Chief, 

46. But to give heed unto 
the words of the friends of 
the King, and to hearken 
unto the reasons why the 
Chieftain Lecompton should 
rule over the people ofyth'^ 
land of Kansas. 



l^S 



THE BOOK OF CHRONICLES. 



CHAPTEK IX 



N the cveiiiiig of the 
fifteenth day of the 
month of March, in 
the second year of the 
reign of James the 
John the Consul 
prepared for the followers of 
the King in the land of Knox, 
a feast. 



Second 




2. And Castle Woodward 
throughout the day, resound- 
ed with the sound of the ham- 
mer and the buzz of the sa^'. 

3. And Abel the Reader 
of the Globe, worked dili- 
gently from the rising of the 
sun to the going down there- 
of, in preparing-" the board for 
the reception of the good 
things of the land. 

4. Now. John the Consul 
had brougiit with him from 
a former journey to the land 
of France, some of its exhil- 
arating vintage : 

5- x\nd the fame Ihereoi' 
had reached e\'eu unto the 
remotest corners of the land 
of Knox, 

1). And till- eves oj" the 



Xephites were made to glisten 
witli its virtues, and their 
tongues were loosened to sing- 
its praise. 

7. And as the King had 
commanded John the Consul 
to gather together his follow- 
ers, in the land of Knox, and 
to obtain their endorsement, 
that he was right "on the 
goose," before he humbled 
himself at the foot of the 
throne, it became the Consul 
to administer spirituous con- 
solation to the hearts of the 
people. 

8. And John caused his 
servants to bountifully supply 
the table with his choicest 
wines : yea, even the Avine of 
the land of France. 

9. And his servants bore 
unto the Castle Woodward 
five thousand tlireo hundred 
and three score and two bot- 
tles of the vintage of the land 
of France. 

10. And iu the centre of 
the east table was placed a 
pyramid of sweetened dough, 
and on the top thereof was 
placed the Horn of the Kijig, 
and the points thereof Avere 
red, as with the blood of 
Bleeding Kansas. 

11. And the followers of 
ihe K'nio- bowed themselvi>- 



THE BOOK or niROMCI-ES. 



19 



and did hoinagt^ unto the 
symbol of Majesty. 

12. At the outer gate of 
the Castle stood Fordney the 
would-be Assessor, to receive 
the tax of the people, for an 
assessment of twenty-live 
cents per caput had been laid 
upon the revellers at the Con- 
sul's feast. 

13. The number thereof 
was computed at two hundred 
men, women, boys and dem- 
ocrats. 

14. And all the Chiefs 
who had wive-* took them to 
the feast, and those who had 
no wives took two, and the 
beauty, both matron and 
maiden, of the citj', were 
there in all their hoops and 
sparkling gems. 

15. And when the guests 
had assembled themselves to- 
gether in the baufjueting 
room, 

10. MattJicw the Irritable 
presented himself before the 
guests, and spake unto th'em, 
saying : 

17. Men, women and de- 
mocrats ! Ye that have ears 
hearken unto my voice, and 
heed the wisdom of my loyal 
words. 

18. Who so eminently 
qualified to sit at the head of 
the feast, as the great Bolog- 
na Chief, M'hose history jq 
have this day listened unto. 

19. A Chief whose head 
is silvered o'er with the bi- 



ting frosts of Democracy, 
and whose aged limbs totter 
with the weight of the Kin"-'s 
favors : 

20. A mighty Chief who 
knows no kindred, save those 
who worship at the shrine of 
power, and sell themselves 
for a mess of spoils: 

21. A Chief, at the men- 
tion of Avhose name, the elder 
dogs refuse to bark, and the 
little puppies subdue their 
whine : 

22. A Chief whom God 
has given just sense enough to 
be a Democrat, and to trem- 
ble at the frown of the King : 

23. A Chief high in favor 
with the king, and who is even 
now journeying unto the land 
of Minnesota, to rule over 
one of the land oflices of that 
people, and who is to receive 
therefor the sum of nine 
thousand dollars annually of 
the revenue thereof. 

24. Again spake Matthew 
the Irritable unto the assem- 
bled guests, saying : 

_ 25. This i^*' Mat the Mar- 
tin, a Stipendary in the pay 
of the Treasury Department 
iii the land of Washington. 
Though small in stature, he 
is yet mighty in the cause of 
the King : 

26. As a child, fit the 
breast of his maternal parent, 
he sucked in Democracy, and 
from the day he was weaned 
unto the reign of James the 



•^i) 



THK HOOK OF OriBOXTf'T.ES. 



Second, he has been u sucker 
at the public teat, and like 
Oliver Twist, his cry is still 
for 'Mnore!" 

27. And the guests at the 
Consul's feast murmured, one 
to the other, for they came 
not to hear these sayings of 
Matthew the Irritable, but to 
partake of the good things 
prepared by the Consul, and 
to drink of the famous wine 
of the land of France. 

28. Now, among the rev- 
ellers, was Saiiord the Sena- 
tor, from the land of Ross, 
whose brain had been work- 
ing, and the Chieftains of 
the land of Knox were fear- 
ful that, unless he were per- 
mitted to deliver himself, he 
would go straightvv'ay ainl 
do something desperate. 

29. And they took com- 
]\assion upon his bowels, and 
led him to the side of the Bo- 
logna Chief: 

30. And for the space of 
two hours his voice was heard 
rumbling through the Ban- 
queting Hall, like unto the 
noise of an army afflicted 
with tlie summer complaint. 

31. Again spake Matthew 
the Irritable unto the Bolo- 
gna Chief, saying: 

32. There is an old back- 
wood's axiom, that this was 
a very good frolic, but a long 
lime between drams ! 

33. Then the guests arose 
tii tluMr feet, .".nd took their 



places around the festal board, 
and the vintage of the land 
of France was in great de- 
mand, and the guest became 
merry, and they reeled to and 
fro, as men maddened with 
the rectified spirit of corn. 

34. And the tongues of 
the Hard Sock Chief, the Old 
War Horse, Baldwin the 
Renegade, Belden tlije Prose- 
cutor, and Lecky the Harper, 
became as the tongues of the 
possessed, and inundated the 
guests with a diarrhoia of 
words. 

35. And Safl'ord the Sen 
ator became as one escaped 
from the Lunatic Asylum, 
and exclaimed, with the voice 
of a maniac : 

36. "Save me, Sam I or 
I perish!" and ho fell into 
the arms of the Old War 
Horse as dead. 

37. Now, among the guests, 
were a number of tlie youths 
of the land, styling themselves 
'* Young America," and they 
made themselves merry with 
the sayings and doings of the 
wavering Chieftains. 

38. And Matthew the Ir- 
ritable waxed wroth at the 
gibes of Young America, and 
he commanded them to leave 
his presence. 

39. But, having paid their 
assessment at the gate, the}' 
heeded not his conimand.^, 
but tarried in their midst. 

40. And the hands of 



tut: book of CHRONlfLES. 



21 



Matthew became incensed iit 
the words of Young America, 
and the iingers thereof chisp- 
ed the thorax of the young 
Chieftain Brown, amf Wil- 
liam the Master of the Posts, 
caught tlie raiment of Mat- 
thew by the hinder part there- 
of. 

41. And great was the 
commotion thereat, for the 
3^oung Chieftain Brown was 
a slight youth of some seven- 
teen summers, and the guests 
trembled, lest, perad venture, 
he suffer violence at the hands 
of his incensed enemies. 

42. And the muscles pass- 
ing through the arms of Mat- 
thew, were seen to expand 
and contract, as though they 
were of gutta perclia. 

43. And in a voice hoarse 
with passion, he vociferated : 

44. " You infamous scoun- 
drel ! I have known you for 
twenty years ! and you have 
always opposed the Democra- 
tic party I" 

45. And the clarion voice 
of the Chieftain Brook, of the 
House of Terry, rang through 
the Hall: "Young Ameri- 
ca ! to the rescue !" 

46. Likewise the voice of 
Prentiss the Sp}'-, was heard, 
saying: "Ho! ye followers 
of the King ! to the rescue of 
our Irritable Chief!" 

47. But the counsels of the 
more prudent prevailed, and 
the belligerent forces with- 



drew from the well fought 
held, and pitched their tents 
for the night within sight of 
the camp-lircs of the enemy. 

48. ^N'ow, fearing the tur- 
bulent spirits of the followers 
of the King, 

49. John the Consul, Mat- 
thew the Irritable, William 
the would-be Congressman, 
William the Beamite, and 
Samuel the Israelite, had is- 
sued their written commands 
unto 

50. Kolin the Judge, Mc- 
Clelland the Commissioner, 
Warden the Merchant, Nor- 
ton the Old War Horse of 
Whiggery, and to Huntsber- 
ry the Tinner, all mighty 
Chiefs in the, ranks of the 
Black Eepublicans, 

51. And likewise unto Jo- 
seph the Law3 er. the puissi- 
ant Chief of the undivided 
Yance force, 

52. Commanding them to 
bo present at the festival of 
the Chief Consul, hoping, 
thereby, from their respected 
and well known virtues, to 
keep in subjection the warlike 
proclivities of the followers 
of the King. 

53. But the Chieftains of 
the Black Kepublican forces, 
and the Chief of the Yance 
party, hearkened not unto 
their commands, saying : 

54." " Let them alone ! — 
They whom the G-ods wish to 
tlestrovthev first make mad." 



•?«> 



TIIK BOOK OF CHR0NTCLF.9. 



(" H A P T E R X - 




MONG the Chieftains 
who had declared for 
the King, were Ed- 
ward the Witless, and 
Samuel the Israelite. 
But the assembling to- 
gether of the people of the 
land of Knox, on the sixth 
day of the month of March, 
in the second _year of the reign 
of James the Second, caused 
them to falter in the course 
they were pursuing. 

3. And Edward journeyed 
to the North, even unto the 
land around and about the 
deep waters of the Lakes. 

4. And he tarried among 
hfs friends until after the as- 
sembling together of the peo- 
ple on the tiftecnth day of the 
month of March, and he came 
not near the forces of the 
King, nor unto the Banquet 
prepared by the Chief Consul. 

5. But Samuel the Israel-' 
ite journeyed not away, but 
tarried in the land of Knox ; 

6. And on the thorough- 
fares leading to the Cit}^ of 
Vernon, he advocated the 
cause of the King, but at the 
hour of battle he came not 
forth, nor was his presence 
noted at the Banquet of John 
the Chief Consul. 

7. And the friends of the 
King marvelled greatly one 
to the other, saying : 



8. What inean-^ this 1 Is 
Samuel the Israelite aping the 
Pughing Senator from th» 
land of Ohio, in advocating 
by speech the cause of the 
King, and then giving aid 
and comfort to the cause of 
the Little Giant, by refusing 
to eat at the Chief Consuls 
table ? 

9. Is it his desire to fill 
the seat in the Councils of the 
Nation, now occupied by thr' 
Burning Chieftain of the land 
of Coshocton ? 

10. Or has he Vis eye fix- 
ed uj)on the far otf port of 
Marseilles in the land of sun- 
ny France ? 

11. Now, this division 
among the people Democra- 
tic, sorely vexed the Israel - 
itish Chieftain, 

12. And he compared it 
like unto a monkey climbing 
a pole, and exposing his west- 
ern extremities to the gaze of 
an applauding people, saying: 

13. Although the face De- 
mocratic has brass enough in 
its composition to imitate the 
monkey, yet let us not uncov- 
er ourselves before the Blacii 
Eepublicans, for they already 
see enough of our nakedness, 
to mantle our cheeks with 
the blush of shame I 

l-i. Now, therefore, being 
a Chieftain of great cunning. 



THE BOOK or CURONIOLES. ^^ 

Samuel kept aloof from all pie, hoping, thereby, to pre- 
these gatheringij of the peo- serve a spotless reGord. 

CHAPTER XI. 




M O N G all 

the Chief- 
tains in the 
land of Knox 
there are 
more faithful 
to the cause of the 
King, than Abel the 
Reader of the Con- 
gressional Globe. 

2. Now, Abel is 
both a wise and a 
good Chief, for dur- 
ing the days allot- 
ted to labor, he dil- 
igently studies his 
Bible, and on the 
seventh day he rests 
from his toil, and 
communes w i t h 
the teachings of the 
Globe, and is ex- 
ceedingly refi'eshed 
thereby. 

3. *^And he abides not 
the presence of those taint(3d 
with the slime of the Know 
Nothing dens, but shunes 
them as a pestilence. 

4. Even the Sanctuary of 
the Most High, soothes not his 
resentment against them, but 
in his wrath he Pilchers from 
under the droppings of th(^ 
Gospel, at the sound of lli^' 
V(.)ice (>i" a Lumauile- 




5. And the heart of Ab^^ 
taught him to shun the Ban- 
quet of the Chief Consul, as 
a place lit only for the ungod- 
ly, and all its guests he fer- 
vently consigned to the land 
of Gehenna. 

6. And he came not unto 
Ihe Banquet, but on the g(^- 
incif down of the sun, he re- 
tired iiiitM hi.^ Castle, and 
.-Icpt tlip slopp of the robf^r. 



24 



Tili; iVHJK or CHRONICLES. 



C H \ V T E ii XII. 




.N the first day of tliu 
month of April in 
the second year of the 
reign of James the 
Second, news came to 
fh^ people of the land of 
Knox, that the forces under 
the King in the land of 
Washington, had been dis- 
comfitted, and that the Chief- 
tain Lecompton h a d 11 e d 
from his 
post, leav- 
i n g his 
dead un- 
bur i e^d , 
and Sis 
wounded 
in the 
hands of the Little Giant. 

2. Now, these tidings 
struck the hearts of the fol- 
lowers of the King in the 
land of Knox with dismay, 
for the King had sworn in 
his wrath that in sixty days 
Lecompton should triumph, 
or he would die ! 

3. And Eli the Miller, 
Matthew the Irritable, Wil- 
liam the would-be Congress- 
man, and the other Chief- 
tains in the land of Knox 
who were friendly to the 
King, bowed them tlieniscl vcs 
down, and wept, refusing to 
be comforted, for they were 
f^orely grieved i\t the fear of 
the iving".'^ death, for they 



placed great confidence in 
his word. 




4. 13iit on the second day 
of the month of April, the 
spirits of Matthew revived, 
and he coJiverscd with his 
friends, saying : 

5. Prophecied I not these 
things unto you ? This de- 
feat of the King for several 
days have I expected and 
looked for ! 

6. And the people were 
amazed at his sayings, for the 
"oldest inhabitant" remem- 
bered not his proi")hccy. 

7. But William the would- 
be Congressman, abided not 
the smiles of the friends of 
the Little Giant, but fled from 
their presence, and taking his 
fishing line and rod, and a 
box of worms, cast himself 
down on the banks of the Ko~ 
kosing and bobbed for eels. 



THE BOOK OF CKRONICLES. 
CHAPTER XIII. 



►HROITGHOUT t h e 
land of Washington 
the groans of those 
wounded in the battle 
^ between the followers 
ufthe King and of the Little 



Giant, mingled with the \;ia- 
cry of the victors. 

2. And the King becanie 
exceedingly alarmed, lest, pv i-. 
adventure, he ehould fall iiiu> 
the hands of his enein.i(!s, 



:^, r">r'-*^x*'* ^^ap-..'!: %, 




3. xVnd to the East, and 
to the "West, and to the North, 
and to the South, he sent 
f(>rtli Messengers to gather in 
his forces, and to buy up with 
the gold of office, or with 
Majestic smiles, the luke- 
warm, and the timid. 

4. For the King, though 
defeated, had resolved " nev- 
er to say die !" 

5. To the sordid lie prom- 
ised coinage of gold and sil- 
ver ; to the eyes of the ambi- 
tious, ho presented visions of 
ottices of honor and profit : 

C- And unto the vain and 
the proud lie spread forth 
'•ostly and fine raiment, and 



clothed them in garments t<> 
appear in the presence of tlie 
King. 

7. Among the Chieftains 
in the Councils of tlie Nation, 
was the Burning Chieftain 
from the land of Ohio. 

H. Now, this Chieftain )iad 
Itft his Castle in the land of 
Coshocton, to take his seat 
Y/ith the Law-makers in tlu' 
land of Washington, a bold 
and nois}' follower of the Lit- 
tle Giant, and had vaantinglv 
declared that before his prow- 
ess, the mighty Locompioa 
should flee as though pui'sued 
by an army witb i3anners. 

y. An he journoytd L^ 



26 



THB Ii<X>K OF CHRONICLBS. 



nursod his wrath, so much 
imieed, that his face became 
terrible to look upon. 

10. And while passing a 
place known in history as 
Mason and Dixon's line, la- 
boring under an hallucination 
of the brain, that his foe was 
within his grasp, 



11. So mighty were his 
efforts to destroy his adversa- 
ry, that he tore his shirt, 

12. And the heart of the 
Shirtless Chieftain wilted at 
this calamity, and he fled to 
the bosom of the King as a 
place of refuge for the naked. 



CHAPTER XIV 



IGH in the favor of the 
Little Giant stood 
the Lilliputian Chief 
from the land of 
i^ Ohio, familiarly call- 
'by h* friends the " Great 
Old Sunset," but by his fond 
parents baptised Samuel Sul- 
livan 





2. So mighty was he in 
his onslaugh upon the King 
and his followers, that the 
people were amazed, for they 
dreamed not so much valor 
was contoined in so small a 
space. 



8. And the praiae of hii 
deeds sounded sweetly to the 
ear, and his heart waa made 
glad thereat, 

4. But at the praise of the 
Sunset Chief the King trem- 
bled as in the presence of a 
goblin, and he became as one 
bereft of reason, for in all 
the ranks of the rebels were 
there none so much to be 
feared as this geminatioua 
Chieftain. 

5. For he boldly rushed 
into places where others fear- 
ed to tread. 

6. Now, to appeaae the 
wrath of this Chieftain, the 
King commanded his Cour- 
tiers to go forth and to reason 
with him. 

7. And the Courtiers of 
the King did as they were 
commanded, and the legs of 
the Sun-down Chief tottered, 
and he fell po*trate, so pow- 
erful was the effect of an En- 
glish bribe. 

8. And the litttle Giant 



THB BOOK OF CHBONlOliBS. 




and his followers were aa 
dumb-founded, for they look- 
ed not for this desertion on 
the part of one who had pro- 
phecied that sooner than de- 
sert the cause of the people, 

9. All the Hickory trees so 
majesticly flourishing thro'- 
out the forests of the mighty 
"We«t, should be eradicated 
by the roots, 





10. And their dead bodies 
erected into a funereal pyre, 
upbn which to immolate hin 
vaulting ambition. 

11. Now, when the tidings 
of the deowertion of the Sun- 



down Chief reached the ears 
of the people dwelling in th-i 
City of Columbus, 

12. They stood aghast, and 
would not be convinced thai, 
this thing had came to pasft. 

13. And they ^ent unto 
him word commanding hitn 
to appear in their profcenco, 
and show cause why he h&d 
done this foul thing. 

14. And he hastened unto 
the City and appeared before 
them, and rendered an ac- 
count of his stewardship. 

16. But the wrath of the 
people would not be appealed, 
and they drove him from 
their presence amid tauuis 
and gibes for his faithlessness. 

16. And the crejstfallen 
Chief made great speed back 
to the King, and reprcsenttKl 
unto him 

17. That throughout tbe 
length and breadth of his 
District, there prevailed a 
terrible epidemic, threatening 
the King and ail his follow- 
ers with the fate of the Syrian 
cohorts, but more ei^peoirJlj 
unto him the lat* gl^orioiis 
Sunset Chief. 




THE BOOK OF CHRONICLES. 
CHAPTEB XV. 




:0W, when the King 
had gathered togeth- 
er the sti'agglers, and 
secured to his cause 
_ _ the weak and the vi- 
hratory, 

• ,2. He caused the com- 
mand to be given along the 
iline, that on the morrow he 
4siiould move his forces, and 
^Lve battle unto the enemy, 

o. And on the morning of 
the thirtieth day of the month 
')f April in the second year 
'.n his reign, the forces of the 
Xing encountered the forces 
'>f the Little Giant, and drove 
them from the field with 
great slaughter. 

4. And the joy of the 
King thereat was exceeding- 
ly great, for his strength was 
nearly spent, and had his for- 
ces, been repulsed, the King 
would have died. 

5. At his defeat the Little 
lijriant manfully stood his 
ground, but his forces were 
utterly prostrated and de- 
stroyed. 

■6, Now, when the tidings 
ef ' the triumph of the King 
reached th^ land of Knox, 
great was the rejoicing of the 
loyalists thereat, and they 
were seen to smile at the ag- 
ony of tlie "dilapidated." 




7. But the friends of tlui 
Little Giant hid themselves 
in the hedges and ditches by 
the way side for the space of 
three days, for they were in 
sore tribulation, and knew 
not where to flee for consola- 
tion. 

8. But the friends of tlio 
King took compassion upon 
them, promising to go snookt* 
in the plunder of the Govern - 
ment, and they sought the 
shelter of the Democratic 
Hive, and entering dwelt 
thoroiu. 






^iri 



t 



THE BOOK OF CHRONICLES. 



29 



V 9. Thus exemplifying tiio 
Kiying of the great NuUifler, 
^nhat the Democratic party 
can only be held together by 
the cohesive power of public 
plunder." 

10. And the thirtieth day 
of the month of April in the 
second year of the reign of 
James the Second, is now re- 
corded in the pages of history, 

11. AS THE B L x\ C K 
FRIDAY! 




12. The 
King hav- 
ing thus 
successful- 
\y' termin- 
ated his 
crusade a- 
gainst his 
dilapidat- 




ed or Yellow licpublicau fees. 
turned his attention to the 
subjugation of the aumerou.s 
wives (having none of his 
own) of the settlers on the 
far distant plains of Utah 1 



CHxiPTEK XVI. 




pected 



:OVi, the vascillating 
coui*se of Lecky the 
Harper during the 
early part of the war, 
caused him to be sus- 
both by the followers 

of the King and of the Little 

Giant. 

2. And arrangements were 
made by both forces, to dance 
to the music of a new organ, 
should the Harper tune his 
lyre to sing the praise of eith- 
er party. 

3. And when, on the fif- 
teenth day of the month of 
March, he squatted on the 
side of the King, 

4. William the Gastonito. 
James the Keeper of the Iron 
Hoi^o, Jacob of the House 
of Ly Brand, and other ful- 
lowers of the Littio Giant, 



o. Sent their command^■; 
unto the City of Brotherly 
Love, 

6. Ordering forthwith to 
be sent unto them the press, 
types, and other apparatus, 
necessary for printing their 
commands to the people to 
sustain the cause of the Little 
Giant. 

7. And the charge thereof 
was given unto Eaguet the 
Spouter, and Agnew the Tall. 

8. And unto William tho 
Gastonite, and to Charles the 
Scribner, Avere delegated the 
command of the ordnance 
department. 

9. And on the twenty-se- 
cond day of the month of 
April in the second year of 
the reign of James the IBe» 
eond, 



£0 



THJB BOOR Of CHRONICUiS. 



10. Tho Mt. Vernon Na. 
tional was cast adrift upon 
the waters, to be buifetted 
from point to point by the 
winda and agitated waves of 
the political ocean. 

11. Now, Kaguet the Va- 
pory Spouter, flew from one 
JBlack Republican to another, 

12. Appealing to their 
prejudices against Lecky the 
Harper, and praying them to 
countenance the cause of the 
lattle Giant, by rendering 
unto the National "material 
aid and comfort ;" 

13. Promising to make 
it discourse such music as 
would make their hearts to 
leap with exceeding great 
joy. 

14. And the Black Ro- 
publicans hearkened unto his 
specious words, and gracious- 
ly smiled upon his efforts. 

16. And they courageous- 
ly stepped forth and placed 
their names upon his books 
to a number almost fabulous. 

16. But alas 1 the words 
of the Spouter was as mist, 
and his promises as chaff, to 
Tsnish at a zypher's breath. 

17. Illustrating the fable 
of the Frozen Serpent so 
touchingly portrayed by the 
inspired pen of Esop, the 
renowned Historian, 

18. Which stung to death 
the boeom whose warmth had 
gfrea it life. 

1^ J"o¥ lh«5 ^xM of ftwir- 



teen days, the National waa 
faithful to the cause of the 
Little Giant, and boldly va- 
pored in the presence of the 
King. 

20. But after the defeat 
of the Little Giant on the 
fatal Black Friday, the Na- 
tional spiked its guns, and 
went over to the side of the 
King: 

21. And is now battling 
shoulder to shoulder widi 
Lecky the Harper, and vain- 
ly striving to supplant the 
Banner in the affections of 
the King and of his followers 
in the land of Knox. 

22. Now, for some time 
past, the mind of William the 
Gastonite, had been exercised 
as to what he should liken 
Lecompton 1 

23. At times it was like a 
Camel ! then again an Ele- 
phant I then a Whale I but 
his mind finally became fix- 
ed that it was a Weasel I 

24. Now, to ease the trou- 
bled mind of the j>erplexed 
Chieftain, 

25. James the Keeper of 
the Iron Horse, 

20. Dispatched a «pe«cial 
Freight Train, numeroualy 
manned by the hardy 6ona of 
the Emerald Isle, 

27. To discover wid oap- 
ture a Weasel, to convijw>e 
the Chieftain that L<>ooiBp'>on 
V83 not ft M-vfJiev 



TBH BOOK. OF OHRONICIJCB. 



81 




28. And the Freight Train 
departed on its mission, 

29. And after a long and 
perilouB journey, the sons of 
St. Patrick discovered, and, 
aft^r a sharp conflict, captur- 
ed, two specimens of animal- 
culse, designated by Natural- 
ists as Weasels ! 

80. And placing them se- 
curely within an old nail keg, 
the explorers returned to the 
City of Yernon, amid the 
noise and smoke of an exas- 
perated Buli-gine. 

81. And in triumph the 



Keeper of the Iron Horse 
sent unto the Caatle of the 
Gastonite, the imprisoned an- 
imals. 

82. And the eyes of the 
Gastonite opened, and he be- 
came convinced, 

33. That Lecompton waa 
not a "Weasel I 

34. And now, in all the 
land, Lecompton has not a 
more devoted follower, than 
Gaston the Weasel Chief, late 
principal fugleman for the 
Little Giant in the land of 
Knox. 



CHPTER XVII. 



PON the desertion of 
the cause of the Little 
Giant by the Nation- 
al, Lecky the Harper 
became sorely alarm- 



2. For the prospects are 
ftiir, that he will be unhorsed, 
and the'trident as Democratic 
music grinder, depart from 
him forever: 

3, For Mich b the edict 




promulgated by Raguet the 
Spouter, that the mission of 
the National was to lower the 
Banner, and number it am- 
ong the things that were. 

4. And Lecky joumeved 
unto the King, and hum\>ly 
presaing his claims, asked 
a reward for his services m 
advocate for the loyal cause. 

6. And the King's heart 
ftoflened, for hia wrath had 



d^ 



THE BOOK OF CHRONICLES. 



wrixod liot against the Harper, 
for his serpentine movemeTits 
in the cause of Lecompton. 

6. And the King issued 
jiis commands to the (Secreta- 
ry of the Navy, to give unto 
Lecky the advertisements of 
■that Department, 

7. That in case of collision 
witli the National, the Ban- 
tier might give it " Tar." 

B. And the heart of'lJie 
Harper \Yas made glad, and 
hi-s feet kept time to the music 
^>|i.the bag;^ 



ast^nisliment at the extrava- 
gant folly of the King, in 
paying ' so much for so little.' 




%;- But when he appeared 
before the Secretary, and 
})resen ted unto him the cojjn- 
mands of the King, 

10. The mouth of that 
functionary [^flew ojicn with 





11. And Lecky the Har- 
dier returned to his Ca&tle in 
the land of Knox, greatly 
))eneiitted by his sojourn with 
the King. 

12. And now the Nation- 
al and the Banner are vicing 
'■me with the other to print 
the liardest "cock and bull " 
?tory against the Black Ke- 
publiean Chief, Cochran, 

- iS, :. For sanctioning l:)y 
"law, in the land of Ohio, the 
commingling of the l>lood of 
the white with the black. 

14. And advocating them- 
selves the same thing in the 
licentious South, without the 
sanction of law, or the reve- 
lation of the gospel. 

15. Thus >ndth the Isl 
Book of Chronicles, of James 
the Second ! ' '"* 

9 
U 



